


The Adventure of the New Orleans Vampire

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon References, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood Play, First Time, Humor, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, New Orleans, POV John Watson, Pining, Smut, Snark, Unrequited Love, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is surprised to hear from an old Uni friend who is living in the U.S. He's even more surprised to find out that he's requesting his and Sherlock's help in finding his missing vampire girlfriend. John hesitates to take the case but Sherlock dives into it with gusto. They head to the Crescent City in search of the missing woman, only to dig up more than John bargained for about Sherlock's past.</p><p>BBC Sherlock/ ACD Canon</p><p>Vamplock for people who don't like Vamplock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the Middle

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time coming. I loved The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire and I wanted to do a crossover with the BBC version of Sherlock, with some obviously AU themes. A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in the open.
> 
> Enjoy!

"You've a letter." 

  
"Hmm," John hummed, his attention on the paper, not his flatmate. MU was on a losing streak, pity.

  
"You've a letter."

  
"Bills?" He asked. Football inevitably reminded him of his sister and he wondered if it was still required etiquette to buy birthday gifts if said recipient was in rehab. Maybe just a card then.

  
"No. A letter."

  
John looked up at that to see a thick envelope, the kind wedding invitations came in, hovering just above his nose. Odd, his birthday wasn't for months yet and he didn't know anyone who was engaged. Sherlock's arm extended impatiently from his torso, if limbs could have their own emotions, and John curiously followed the line of his body to his face. Yep. Impatient. He folded the paper and lay it in his lap so he could take the letter.

  
"It's from America," he said, surprised. "I don't know anyone from America. I don't think." He looked up in thought. "Greer...no he's-," John didn't finish. I.E.D. explosion in '09.

  
"It's from New Orleans," Sherlock supplied helpfully, as if John couldn't read the return address himself.

  
"Yes, I saw, thank you."

  
"Well?" He replied. His frame fairly vibrated with curiosity.

  
John smiled a bit. Nosy git. He flipped it over, tugged the flap and started to tear before he paused. "Should I-"

  
"I've already x-rayed it," Sherlock supplied.

  
"You...," he sighed. So that's where he had been all day. His first response was anger but it was Sherlock. And really, it was a smart precaution, given their proclivity to anger criminals. He tore the rest of the envelope open and pulled the three sheets of thick vellum parchment out. He turned them over in his hand, surprise and confusion and amusement warring for dominance. He would have assumed if anyone would receive a missive on parchment it would be Sherlock. No wonder he was bouncing on his toes in curiosity. John started reading, very aware of Sherlock standing over him, likely reading the letter upside down.

  
"Who's Bob Ferguson?"

 

"Shh," he shushed. "I'm not finished."

  
"John," he whinged.

  
"Incredible," John muttered with a chuckle as he finished the letter.

  
"Who's Bob Ferguson?" He asked again.

  
John set the letters down in his lap. "An old Uni friend. We played Rugby together. I haven't heard from him in years." Another chuckle. "Imagine that, he found my blog all the way from America."

  
"It's the internet, John. Distance isn't a factor."

   
"Still though. Getting to be pretty popular again." He looked up at Sherlock through his eyelashes, waiting for his response.

  
"Smugness doesn't suit you," Sherlock sneered.

  
John preened. "Yes it does."

  
Sherlock sniffed. "So, when do we leave?"

  
"What?"

  
"I assume you'll want to be out as soon as possible. I can call in a favor if need be, get us out on a red eye tonight."

  
"You can't be serious. He thinks his missing girl friend is a vampire."

  
Sherlock blinked.

  
"A _vampire_ , Sherlock."

  
"Yes. It's worth checking out."

  
John's brow came down. "You think it's 'Worth checking out'. You want to fly across the Atlantic to a city we've never been..."

  
"I've been."

  
"...to investigate a mythical creature, all on the word of a bloke I haven't seen or heard from in almost twenty years?"

  
He blinked some more. "I've nothing else on."

  
"Yeah? What about the thing?" He hitched his thumb at the kitchen.

  
Sherlock glanced over. "It'll keep."

  
"No. No, no, no, no, no. It will _not_ keep. If we're leaving the country you are not leaving human remains on the kitchen table."

  
Sherlock's face lit up. "So we _are_ taking the case?"

  
John sighed again. Damn it, he couldn't say no now. "Do you still have Mycroft's Platinum Card?"

  
An evil grin. "Yes," he growled.

  
"Bin the bits," John commanded with a point to underscore his seriousness, causing Sherlock's smile to fall into a scowl. "I mean it." He snapped his paper back out but his focus was on his flatmate as he grumbled in the kitchen. A little smile formed on John's mouth.

  
They decided against the red eye, instead settling on the earliest flight the next morning. John woke and made his way downstairs to have a cuppa before they left but stopped short at the bottom of the stairs.

  
"Don't do this." Mycroft. John cocked his head in confusion. The command had sounded strangely like begging. When Sherlock didn't respond he tried again. "It's not worth what you have now, let it go."

  
"Stop," Sherlock hissed. "It's done. Leave."

  
John heard Mycroft sigh before he rose from his seat in John's chair. They passed each other in the doorway, Mycroft didn't respond to his nod of acknowledgment, and John wondered why Mycroft was getting involved at all.

  
"What was that all about?" He asked when the front door slammed. "He take the card back?"

  
Sherlock looked at John briefly but didn't respond. He swung his violin under his chin and scratched out an abusive concerto until it was time to leave.

  
Several hours later, after a hellish Trans-Atlantic flight, in which Sherlock deduced every passenger on the plane, out loud, in embarrassingly rich detail, and then told the elderly woman sitting across the aisle that there was cause for concern because the copilot had a family history of alcoholism, John found himself in New Orleans. They had time traveled back to the morning hours of the day but the airport was already bustling with activity. He hadn't relaxed properly in the last ten hours but as soon as he saw the palm trees that lined the outside of the airport, he felt a surge of energy. He had promised himself that he would treat this like a holiday. A much needed holiday.

  
"Wipe that look off your face, John. You look like a tourist." Sherlock snapped his sun glasses out of his pocket and sat them on his nose like a rock star. He hailed a cab just as easily as one and John forgot to be mad. The sun was shining, the breezes were warm, he was going to see an old friend and he was going to get to investigate a missing vampire in New Orleans. He felt like a million quid and nothing was going to bring him down. Not even Sherlock.

  
"You're just mad because it's too hot to wear your coat." Sherlock grunted noncommittally and John ginned, knowing he'd scored a hit. "You think the girls are getting naked downtown?"

  
Sherlock's face twisted in a grimace as they ducked into the cab and John snickered in amusement.

  
The cab dropped them off in front of the hotel and Sherlock nudged him several times to exit, as his face had been pressed against the glass the whole ride and he hadn't realized that they had reached their destination. The door opened and he was immediately assaulted by the culture, in the best possible terms. Zydeco music blared from a bar on the corner. A street performer danced for a crowd just to the right of the hotel. The smell of Cajun spice permeated the air, causing John's mouth to water. Sherlock grabbed both of their bags, shocking that, but only because John was turning in a circle, looking up at the building they were staying in.

  
"Useless," Sherlock muttered as he glided passed into the hotels revolving doors.

  
He chuckled but jogged to catch up. The lobby was gorgeous. All white marble and glittering chandeliers. He whistled as he took it in. "Thank you, Mycroft."

  
"Yeah, not too shabby," Sherlock agreed in a perfect American accent.

  
John laughed out loud, startling an older gentleman who walked by.

  
"Pardon my friend. He's from out of town," Sherlock told the man, still in character. John punched him in the arm and they both snickered as the old man scowled at them.

  
"Can I help you?" The receptionists asked. John shoved Sherlock ahead so he could commit credit card fraud; he grabbed the bags and stood by the lift.

  
"Elevator," he said to himself.

  
"Hmm," Sherlock inquired when he stepped inside.

  
"They call them elevators here."

  
"Yes, well they do elevate."

  
"S'weird."

  
"What?"

  
"That they come over from England but call stuff by a different name. Cookies. What's up with that?"

  
Sherlock squinted at him. "Have you been drinking?"

  
"No," he chuckled. "We've been squished together for the last ten hours, you know I haven't. I'm just thinking out loud."

  
"I don't recommend you make a habit of it."

  
John bumped shoulders with him as they exited the _elevator_. "Shut it."

  
"I will not." He smirked. "You know, I have an extensive knowledge of American Dialects and colloquialisms, if you're interested."

  
"I'm sure you do," he said dryly. "What room are we in?"

  
Sherlock looked down at the plastic key cards in his hand. "Six twenty six."

  
"Twenty two, twenty four, ah, here we are," he announced, snatched the key cards from Sherlock and quickly opened the door, eager to see the view from their room. "Ta da." He dramatically swung the door wide.

  
"Not bad," Sherlock noted.

John agreed but was more interested in the large bay doors just to the left of their beds. He threw open the drapes and was delighted to discover that their room had a balcony. He opened the doors and stepped out. The breeze was warm, the sun was hot, the cadence of the city met his ear and he could do nothing but drink it in.

  
"Remember John, this is a case, not a holiday," Sherlock called from the room.

John turned to look at him. "It can be a case _and_ a holiday."

  
"You didn't even want to come." He unzipped his suitcase and removed his toiletries.

  
"No, I didn't want to come to investigate a fairy tale, I never said I didn't want a holiday."

  
"It's not a holiday," he grumbled. "Call your friend, tell him we'll meet him here in the room."

  
"What, now? I haven't even unpacked yet."

  
Sherlock waved an arm at his bag and raised his eyebrows as if to say 'What are you waiting for?'

  
"But the pamphlet said we had to stop by the Cafe du Monde first for their _beignets_."

  
Sherlock flinched. "Don't," he shivered, " don't ever attempt French in my presence again."

  
"What, did I say it wrong?"

  
"It's _beignets. Beignets._ " His enunciation was pristine.

  
"That's what I said."

  
" _Beignets_ , not Bag Nets," he reiterated and shook his head as he took his toiletries bag to the bathroom.

  
"You want to meet him now?" John asked, still a bit cross.

  
"Yes."

  
"And when you discover Bob has gone round the twist, Cafe du Monde after?"

  
Sherlock smirked in the mirror. "Fine. I'll even take you round to my favourite spots if you'd like." He walked past John, who looked up with a smile, on his way toward the balcony.

  
"Really? That would be great." He fished his mobile out of his pocket and went to his suitcase to dig out Bobs number. "You did say you'd been here before, didn't you?"

  
"Yes," Sherlock answered from the balcony. "Ages ago." He sounded wistful.

  
John snorted. "'Ages ago?'" He mocked. "You're thirty seven. How many years is _ages_ to you?"

  
He didn't answer but it didn't matter because Bob picked up on the second ring.

  
"Johnny?"

  
"Yeah Mate. All right?"

  
"Yeah! How was the flight? Did you just get in?"

  
"Yeah, yeah. Flight was good. Sherlock almost got us picked up by the TSA but his brother pulled some strings. We're at the Hotel de Marais." Sherlock growled, probably over his pronunciation. John waved him away. "Sherlock says just come over and we'll go over your case here in the room."

  
"Sure thing. Give me twenty, I'll be right over."

  
"We're in room six twenty six."

  
"Right. See you soon, Mate."

  
"Right." He hung up. "He says in twenty. I'm going to change, get a spot of coffee, wake up a bit."

  
Sherlock didn't give any indication that he'd heard, he was flopped sideways on his bed, legs hung off the side. He didn't even look like he needed to freshen up. He had sat on the plane, cramped and sweaty, just as long as John but where as John looked like a wrinkled sack of potatoes, Sherlock looked fresh off the runway.

  
"Prat," John muttered as he dragged his suitcase to the bathroom. Seemed to John like Sherlock didn't even get dirty. Lord knew he could do nothing but lay around in a house coat and jim jams for days on end, but he never seemed to smell or to accumulate any sort of normal human grime. Posh bastard. He was positively alien. John washed up quickly and changed. The room had a mini coffee pot and he made quick use of that as well. He'd liked to have ordered in from the room service but even using Mycroft's card to foot the bill, he still couldn't reconcile paying $6 for it.

  
"You ever had iced coffee?" John asked off the cuff.

  
"No," Sherlock answered from the bed, eyes shut, perfectly still.

  
"Neither have I. I'm curious. It's almost too hot for coffee," he commented as he stupidly continued to drink his hot beverage. Bob knocked on the door with three minutes to spare and John turned from his perch against the balcony door frame to answer.

  
"John Watson," Bob bellowed and pulled him into a massive hug. The nutty Scotsman had always been bigger than John but, Christ, he'd gained five stone, easily, since their Uni days. John found himself up off his feet.

  
"Bobby," John laughingly greeted when Bob set him down.

  
"Long time, Mate, long time. How's things?" Bob asked when John waved him inside.

  
He shut the door behind them. "Things are good. Yeah, things are good." He smiled and looked to Sherlock, who was standing to greet their companion. "Bob, this is-"

  
"Sherlock Holmes," Bob held his hand out. "I've read all about you. It's a pleasure. Bob Ferguson."

  
They shook hands and Sherlock motioned for him to sit.

  
"Have a seat Mr. Ferguson."

  
"Oh, call me Bob." He took a chair in the corner. Sherlock sat on the end of the bed and John took the desk chair.

  
 _"Bob,"_ Sherlock spit the word out like it was black licorice. John had to turn away to hide a smile. Bob didn't seem to notice.

  
"You are a sight for sore eyes, Johnny."

  
John smiled wide. "You sure about that? I haven't exactly aged well." He held his hand up to his face.

  
Bob chuckled. "From what I've heard you have good reason for an extra few grey hairs."

  
John looked at Sherlock. "You can say that again."

  
Sherlock scowled, lips pursed in a posh moue. "I believe he's referring to your Army career, John."

  
"Ah. Yeah that sure didn't help," he chuckled. "So, what have you been up to since Uni?"

 

"Well, I'll admit, Anthropology didn't exactly pan out for Ol' Ferguson here. I'm in Real Estate now."

  
"Really? You didn't go on to unearth the next Stonehenge?" John laughed remembering the Bobby Ferguson of twenty years ago. Fearless, stupidly so some might say, picking fights with footballer's over their girlfriends and such. Bound and determined to become Indiana Jones.

  
"Yeah, and speaking of, I brought a little something. Call it insurance, just in case you decided to have a laugh about it." He dug his wallet out of his trousers pocket and pulled out a photograph. He leaned over to hand it to John but Sherlock beat him to the punch.

  
"Hey!" He jumped up to grab it from his flatmate but Sherlock fended him off with one hand, the other he used to hold the picture up to examine it.

  
"John Watson. You're wearing a sleeveless leather jacket," Sherlock said, incredulous.

John looked at Bob."You bastard."

  
Bob thought this was hilarious.

  
"The girl you have your arm wrapped around is wearing a shirt that says Iron Maiden. Not a wise endorsement as historically the Iron Maiden was not kind to the female population," Sherlock nattered on as John continued to try and wrestle the picture from him.

  
"Give me that, you git."

  
"Oh, take it. I've gleaned all the pertinent information." He handed it over.

  
John snatched it as if he had won it, fair and square. He looked it over for himself.

  
"Where did you get this?" He asked Bob.

  
"I've had it for years. '92. Monsters of Rock."

  
John grinned as he pieced the memory together. "You, me, Amy Heathrow, Janice...Oh.. what was her name?"

  
"Janice Long-Sheffield. Eddie's not in the picture because he ran off with some random bit of tail, but he was there too, remember?"

  
"Yes," he laughed and scratched at the back of his neck. "The Italian Beer vendor. He was missing for three days. We thought she had cut him into bits and fed him to her snakes."

  
Sherlock watched the exchange as if it were a courtroom interrogation. John felt awkward, exposed, and he hated feeling that way in company. He held the picture out to Bob.

  
"Keep it, Mate. I get the feeling I remember more about that night than you do," Bob chuckled.

  
"You're blood alcohol level was point one zero," Sherlock commented, almost as an afterthought.

  
"There's no way you could know that."

  
"I've made a study of your tolerance," he argued.

  
"It has to have changed since I was twenty two, Sherlock," he pointed out.

  
At this Sherlock cocked his head, probably calculating backwards the rate of alcohol breakdown from twenty years ago.

  
"Thanks, Bobby." He tucked the photo under his notebook. "I'll cherish it always," he said sarcastically.

  
"Remember when you tried to climb the barricade when Slayer went on and Janice started crying because she was sure that bouncer was going to kill you?"

  
"Bob. Shut up."

  
"Never forget." He grinned.

  
Sherlock blinked. "Point one four. A miracle you survived at all."

  
John stared at him. "Are you done?"

  
"Let's get down to business, shall we?" He said, turning to Bob. "Tell me how you met Meredith." John rolled his eyes but quickly snatched his notebook to take notes.

  
"Oh, all right," Bob said after a second of recovery time. He became thoughtful. "I guess after my divorce I just wanted out of Glasgow. I packed up the kid, Jackie, my boy, and we came to America about six years ago. I wanted him to be here so you two could meet but he's a teenager. You know how it is. Like pulling teeth just to get him to answer the phone." He chuckled.

  
"Why didn't your wife get your son?" Sherlock asked.

  
"Hmm? Oh, well she," he hesitated, looked down at his massive hands, "she's not exactly right in the head, you see. The court granted me custody on account of her time in and out of the mental wards. She was a sweet girl when we first got together but she changed over the years. Any how, we came here, to New Orleans. I've always been fascinated by the darker things in life. I admired the local history, ghosts, witches...vampires. Always been a bit of a weirdo, as Johnny can attest. We ran with a rough crowd. Got into some pretty wicked shite, didn't we?"

  
John laughed in memory. "Yeah, we did."

  
"I can see you've grown out of that phase but I never really did." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John. He glared back at him to keep his mouth shut. "I came here looking for something, I don't know what, but I found it in Meredith. She singled me out one night in a pub and just blew my mind. She's unbelievably beautiful. And she wanted _me._ " He put his hands up to indecate himself and the unlikelyhood of any woman wanting him. Bob was a bigger guy but he wasn't ugly, per se, just sort of intimidating. Sherlock made a noise in his throat, noncommitive but something about his expression had John taking note.

  
"How long were you together?" He asked.

  
"Just under five years. We have a flat around the corner together."

  
"Really? Isn't it expensive?" John asked.

  
Bob smiled. "I got a good deal, being in Real Estate and all and Meredith, she's a public affairs officer for the Saints. We get free season tickets. I love her so much." He suddenly burst into tears. Sherlock looked wide eyed to John as if to say 'You handle this, it's your area.' John grabbed a box of tissues and handed them to Bob.

  
"Robert," Sherlock said softly, John almost snickered at his reluctance to utter 'Bob' a second time, "when did Meredith go missing?"

  
Bob sniffled into his tissue. "Last week. Tuesday. I called the cops but they can't handle this. It's...complicated." He looked at them both before continuing. "I know what it sounds like, I really do. Try to understand, I didn't come to you guys for just any reason." Sherlock shifted minutely on the bed. "I know your stories, Johnny. You've gone up against some right crazy shite. I thought, I don't know, I don't have anyone else to turn to."

  
"It's alright, Bob. Just tell us what happened." He felt bad now for laughing about Bob's situation. A woman was missing, regardless if they believed what Bob was saying, she really was gone. That much was certain, Sherlock had already looked into it.

  
"She went to work on Tuesday, same as normal. I saw her off at seven thirty, I went into work at nine thinking everything was fine until that night around eight. Her girlfriend called to ask why Mere wasn't answering her phone. They were supposed to meet up for drinks but she never showed. I tried her mobile but she didn't answer me either. She never came home at all. I waited until the next day to go to the police but they haven't contacted me at all since then."

  
"What happened to her car?" Sherlock asked.

  
"She didn't take it to work. She rode her bike to the office on days that it was nice since it's so close. The bike was still locked up in the garage of her office building." He blew his nose again.

  
John hesitated but had to ask. "Bob. I'm sorry to bring this up but I have to ask. What makes you think she's....a vampire?"

  
"It's okay. I wouldn't even have brought it up but it definitely has to do with her disappearance. A hunter got her. I'm sure." He sniffed.

  
"A hunter?" John asked.

  
Bob nodded but didn't elaborate.

  
"A vampire hunter?"

  
"Yeah."

  
"Why do you think that?"

  
"Because she's a vampire."

  
John looked to Sherlock for help. He stared Bob down as if his life secrets were written on his forehead. "When did she tell you?"

  
Bob looked to Sherlock. "About six months in. She explained over dinner. Said that she loved me and didn't want me to be frightened of her, she wanted me to love her for who she was." Another tear trailed down his face but he didn't touch it, he stared at the floor. "They aren't like you see in the movies. They're not evil. Just different. She was the loveliest, kindest person I've ever known. Drinking blood didn't change that." Sherlock looked at John, and John just stared back, flabbergasted. None of this was proof.

  
"Robert, did Meredith introduce you to any of her friends?" Sherlock asked.

  
"Yeah, all of them."

  
"Any of her vampire friends?"

  
"Oh," he nodded,"just Irene."

  
A tick appeared just below Sherlock's right eye and his fingers twitched on the down comforter under his hands. John stared at him quizzically. Anybody else watching wouldn't have caught the little motions but John was an expert on reading his flatmates tells after getting almost nothing to go on all these years. Sherlock might as well have started screaming as far as John was concerned. What was going on in that head of his?

  
"All right, Robert, that's sufficient."

  
"It is?" John and Bob both said simultaneously. They looked at each other.

  
"Yes," Sherlock said impatiently and grabbed hold of Bob to steer him out. "We'll be in touch."

  
"Oh, all right then. I'll just check in tomorrow, shall I?" Bob asked. Sherlock slammed the door in his face. John gasped in horror and ran to fix the gaffe. After explaining to Bob that they would indeed touch base tomorrow, he turned to chastise Sherlock, only to find him lost in thought, pacing and clearly checked out of reality. Nothing would snap him out of it now. John huffed and sat to wait it out. Twenty minutes or so went by, in which Sherlock walked the entirety of the hotel room, once pulling off a spectacular full body roll across both beds using no arms, before he came back to the present. His eyes snapped to John's, which caused John to freeze like a deer in headlights.

  
"What?" He asked cautiously.

  
"I need to go out." He turned and fled the room. John ran to the door just as it closed behind him.

  
"And what, I'll just stay here, shall I?" He called after Sherlock, whose legs were eating up the carpet of the hallway like it was his job.

  
He turned. "Go eat some Bag Nets." The lift door opened and he disappeared.

  
John stared at the place he had been in shock. "The bastard," he said aloud to the empty hallway. He tapped his foot for three seconds before he shook his head and dove back inside the room for the spare room key, his wallet and his phone. He took the stairs three at a time, grateful that he was still in shape despite his age, and made it to the lobby in time to watch Sherlock turn the corner outside. He waited a beat before following. He was grateful for the crowd as he stepped off the kerb. Being 170cm helped as well as he wove through the people on the street. When Sherlock stopped or turned John merely ducked down to avoid being seen. When he turned onto a mostly deserted street, John hung back and waited, watched as he looked right and left before he turned and walked down a set of stairs situated between two doors. John waited another minute before making his way forward. The door at the bottom of the stairs was painted an ominous black. There was no sign announcing it's business, hell, it didn't even have an address posted. He looked left and right, instinctually mirroring Sherlock's cautious nature, before he followed down the stairs. The knob was cool to the touch and he hesitated before pulling it. As soon as it cracked open music filtered out, not loud, not yet, but the wider the door opened the clearer it got. He knew anyone watching him would probably laugh at the puzzled expression on his face as he entered. He had time traveled. That was the only explanation. He turned to look behind him, to check that the outside was the same as he had left it. It was.

  
"Take your coat, Sir?"

  
"Ahh!" John jumped a foot in the air. "Christ! I didn't see you there. Oh." He balked. "Not because you're black or anything. My eyes just haven't adjusted yet," he babbled in embarrassment to the elderly black man sitting in the corner of the entryway. He was such a prat.

  
"Your coat, Sir?" He didn't move from his perch on the stool.

  
John looked down at his chest stupidly. "I'm not wearing a coat."

  
"Very good, Sir." The man continued to stare past him. He must be blind. What kind of place was this? He cautiously shuffled away.

  
"I'll just," he pointed toward the doorway but got no response. "Right." He walked away. It was a nightclub, this basement hidey-hole Sherlock had disappeared into. A smoke filled, jazz playing, swing dancing, nightclub. The 20's called, they wanted their decor back. He looked around, wide eyed, at the people seated around the place. They seemed at ease in the environment, like they had stepped out of the silver screen into glorious technicolor. There must have been at least thirty or forty people milling about, despite the hour, all manner of dress, from the appropriate zoot suits to a guy wearing full British Regency military regalia. He did a double take at that one. His eyes pulled away from the sight to scan for Sherlock. He zeroed in on his mates lanky stride as he made his way toward a, quite frankly, gorgeous woman who held her arms out with a grin. _'Sherlock Holmes'_ , John read on her lips as he approached. Sherlock, to John's great surprise, went willingly into her arms. She pulled back, smile still in place, and cracked him open palmed across the face. John took an involuntary step forward but he could see that Sherlock was laughing as he rubbed his cheek. The woman, yet still, smiled up at him and offered him a seat. They sat together at the bar, thankfully his back stayed turned to John as he made his way forward, and he sat as well, just behind and to the left of them. The bartender nodded at him but John shook his head. He wished he could hear their conversation over the trumpet playing. She was flirting, at least that's what it looked like, if one ignored the initial smack across the face. She had a hand to his forearm, red nails lightly scraping the skin. It seemed to go from pleasantries to something much more serious. Perhaps this was Irene? If that were the case, not only was Sherlock clearly acquainted with her already, shocking that, but she was purported to be a vampire. She looked the part, he had to admit. Dark hair pulled back in a classic knot, lips painted red, sexy but professional looking skirt and blouse combination. He wondered what she was doing up at this time of day if she were a vampire. He had to laugh at his imagination. Though, again he had to admit, if a vampire was going to hang out anywhere it would be here. He watched the dance floor as couples paired off for a swing number. It was so natural, like watching a choreographed number in a film. The music changed again and John watched as a girl squealed and ran up to the dance floor from her perch on one of the couches. The crowd lined up for a quadrille. Sherlock had turned his body slightly to watch the dance floor as well while he continued to talk. A light from the left caught John's eye and he turned to watch the front door open. A pair of young men stumbled in but before they made it to the doorway a huge black dog leapt from the shadows and, with haunches raised, growled at them. They scrambled around each other and ran hell for leather back out the door. John stared, feeling unhinged, as the dog backed into the dark corner. The one that the old man had occupied alone minutes before...

  
"I've never seen you here before," a voice said on his left. He whipped his head to see a young woman, approximately early twenties, red hair, large blue eyes, look him up and down like he was something to eat. He felt his face flush before he could answer properly. "What brings you into the lion's den?" She smiled and dimples appeared. John felt like a pedophile just looking at her. His hand clenched in his lap.

  
"Is that the name of this place?" He asked her.

  
She laughed, head back, neck exposed. "No, dear. That's it's occupation."

  
"Oh," he muttered, confused and not a little bit worried.

  
"You're inside _La Maison Rouge_. Clandestine meeting place of the damned. Are you here to mingle?" She licked her lips.

  
John licked his lip nervously in response as an inexplicable bead of sweat worked it's way down his back. "No, I...," he looked to Sherlock. She misunderstood.

  
"Nice try, dear. You're not exactly Irene's type." She leaned in, a hand to his thigh, and purred in his ear. "Who do you belong to?"

  
He stuttered, unable to work out her meaning, but it turned out he didn't need to. A rush of cold air and suddenly she was ripped away from his side.

  
"He's _mine_ ," a dark voice growled.


	2. The Question of Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns a shocking secret about Sherlock's past but, in standard John Watson fashion, absorbs this information and moves on. For the sake of the case, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in the open.
> 
> Enjoy!

John looked up to see Sherlock, a hand wrapped around the girl's wrist, and was shocked to an even greater level than before to see that he was breathing hard. He looked crazed.

  
"Sher-," John tried to say.

  
"Go."

  
"But-"

  
"Go, John." He looked at John then and he knew that he was serious. Whatever this was, whatever had happened was not good.He attemped to slide off the bar stool but couldn't make his legs obey.

  
Irene stood just behind Sherlock and shook her head. "Tsk, Kate."

  
"What did I do? I didn't know he belonged to anyone. I don't even know you." Her chin pointed out.

  
"Kate, might I introduce you to Mr. Holmes," Irene said with a smug smile.

  
Kate blanched, eyes wide. John was so baffled by this exchange he had frozen solid where he sat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noted that the DJ was now playing Led Zeppelin.

  
"I swear," her eyes darted between all three of them, "I swear I didn't know. I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  
Sherlock finally let go of her arm. "And that's why you're still alive." He looked her up and down coldly. "John is off limits. Make sure your friends know." John felt a shiver wrack his frame at the directive.

  
She wasted no time leaping off the bar stool. John watched her go and then turned back to Sherlock. He looked at him like he'd never seen him before, because honestly, he felt like he hadn't. Sherlock had just threatened to kill a girl for propositioning him. What was going on?

  
"You must be John," Irene held her manicured hand out, as if things were progressing normally. He actually started to put his hand out, out of habit he was sure, but Sherlock snatched him by the wrist before they could connect.

  
"No, Irene. If there's nothing else you can tell me, we'll be going." He pulled John along.

  
"Come back, dear. I swear, you're both safe here," she laughingly called out to him.

  
Sherlock didn't answer her. He pulled John forward.

  
"Winston," Sherlock greeted the elderly man on the way out. John watched as he tipped his hat at them as they sped past. There was no dog. He looked up at Sherlock and wisely kept his mouth shut. The door was wrenched open and John was surprised that it was still day light outside, like exiting a cinema mid day, he thought wildly. He felt like they had been in there for hours, though in reality it had probably been a quarter, half hour tops. Sherlock didn't let go of his hand when they reached the top of the stairs and John had to tear his hand away to get his attention.

  
"What the _bloody hell_ was that?"

Sherlock stopped walking abruptly. Without turning he said, "I told you to stay behind."

  
"Yeah, well, I didn't listen, did I? Sucks having a flatmate who doesn't listen, doesn't it?" He retorted sarcastically. "Seriously, what just happened in there? Are they role playing or..." He didn't finish the thought. He couldn't.

  
Sherlock half turned, put a hand in his hair and tugged. "It's not what you think." His eyes slid towards John and then away.

  
John chuckled. "You have no idea what I think. You told those women that I was your's. You threatened to _kill_ that girl. What the fuck were you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind?"

  
"It's complicated."

  
John laughed again. He felt like he was losing _his_ mind. "'It's complicated?' Yeah? Is that what it says on your Facebook? No wonder people think we're dating."

  
"John," he started but didn't finish.

  
"My, my. The Great Sherlock Holmes, out of words. This is a first."

  
He looked John over. John waited patiently.

  
Sherlock took a deep breath. "Walk with me." He took his phone out and started texting. John walked beside him as they headed West, instead of North towards the hotel.

  
"Where are we going?"

  
"Cafe du Monde. You're going to need Bag Nets for this conversation."

  
"You don't have to keep calling them that."

  
Sherlock smiled at him. John wasn't ready to forgive everything just yet but he had to admit he felt on even ground once again, with Sherlock teasing him. They arrived at the outdoor cafe to find it overrun with tourists. John half expected, after the club incident, for Sherlock to command a table, but it turned out even the mysterious _Mr. Holmes_ had to wait for a table like everyone else. When they found one, Sherlock waited until they had the table cleaned and their orders were taken before speaking.

  
"I do owe you an explanation."

  
"Damn right you do," John said. The waiter set the plate of pastries, piled ridiculously high with powdered sugar, and their coffee down and then left. John picked up his cafe au lait, no sugar, and brought it up to his lips.

  
"I'm a vampire."

  
John spit hot coffee on his pastries. He looked up at Sherlock through his eyelashes. "What?"

  
"Was. Was a vampire," he conceded with a head tilt. "I used to role play, as you say, with Irene. It was before the drugs. I was young."

  
"I don't believe you," he said but he couldn't help but grin, because he could see it. He really could see a young Sherlock, lounging in that club, Irene on his arm, dark, Byronesque curls driving the groupies mad. It reminded him of his own past, long forgotten in embarrassment until Bob had dredged it up today. This whole case was bonkers but it was definitely something his twenty-two year old self would have jumped on.

  
"It's true." He even had the sense to look embarrassed.

  
"Why did you take this case? You had to have known I would find this out."

  
"I guess I was feeling nostalgic."

  
"Sentiment? For shame, Mr. Holmes."

  
"Shut up and eat your Bag Nets."

  
John laughed. "They're all soggy now." He picked one up anyway and tapped it on the plate. God, the relief he felt at Sherlock's explanation. For a second he had really entertained the idea that he was...well, best not to think too hard on it. While they sat and John worked on his pastries, Sherlock continued texting.

  
"Who're you talking to?"

  
Without looking up, "Dolores."

  
"Who?"

  
"Dolores Amaru. Meredith's friend, the one she was meeting for drinks that night. She's going to meet us here."

  
"Ah," John said dumbly. He was actually surprised they were still on the case. Honestly, he had forgotten there was a procedure in place. They sat for another few minutes before Dolores walked by. Sherlock waved her over. She balked for a second before cautiously making her way to the table. She looked at Sherlock.

  
"You're-"

  
He stood. " _Si,_ " he answered, cutting her off. He took her hand and kissed it. John smirked at the feigned charm. She squinted at him warily. Smart girl.

  
" _Él sabe_?" She nodded at John.

  
Sherlock glanced at him for a second. John frowned. " _No, aún no. Me gustaría conservar esta información entre nosotros_."

  
"Hello, my name's John Watson. I don't speak Spanish but I'm also not blind." He held his hand out to her and grinned.

  
She smiled prettily. "Sorry. He started it."

  
John liked her immediately. She seemed smart, relatively sane, she was pretty, her accent was adorable and she smiled at John like he was the catch. "Sit, help me finish these ridiculous pastries."

  
She laughed. "They are ridiculous, aren't they?" She sat at the third chair and helped herself to one of the sugar coated confections. John smiled as she held her hand under her chin to catch the excess powder. Should he mention he had spit all over them? Unhygienic at the very least. He received a kick under the table and yelped, looked over Sherlock with a scowl. He wore an incredulous expression, looked at Dolores and back with raised eyebrows to say 'Really? Now?' John looked away, a bit ashamed. Suddenly he was back in the club with an angry Sherlock standing over him, growling _'He's mine'_ to the woman who had been caressing him. He tried to hide the shiver that wracked his frame as he shook his head. Dolores had noticed the strained atmosphere and set her _beignet_ down. She looked down and then back up with a wan smile. She was reminding herself why she was here.

  
"Meredith."

  
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I talked to Irene. She seems to agree that there is someone picking off vampires around the city. Meredith wasn't the first."

  
Dolores looked at John before answering.

  
"It's all right," Sherlock told her. "I told John about Meredith's role playing lifestyle."

  
"Ah," she said with a nod. John's warning bells went off. "I see. Yes, well, she lived her life as normally as possible given her...habits. She and Bob were really happy together. She never did anything to tip off anyone to her activities. I honestly don't know who would do this."

  
"She never mentioned any others from the area going missing?"

  
"No, but then again, I wasn't involved much with her extra curricular activities, if you catch my drift."

  
"Yes. But you were aware of them."

  
"Well yes. We grew up together. My family is...um," she licked her lips, " _Dado a su familia_."

  
Sherlock nodded. "Understood. And Irene was her only contact in New Orleans?"

  
"Yes."

  
"Abroad?"

  
"None other than her family back home. Like I said, she tried to live as normally as possible. You said there have been others?"

  
"Yes, unfortunately."

  
She closed her eyes and took a shuddering breath. "I had hoped that she was just kidnapped. Used," she said softly.

  
John cocked his head. Used? What the hell was she implying? He put a hand on top of hers. "Have hope. There hasn't been a body found. She could still be out there."

  
She looked at John as if he was the one who needed comforting, glanced at Sherlock who minutely shook his head, and then back to John. She nodded to him but there was no will behind it.

  
"I have one more question, Dolores."

  
"Yes?"

  
"Robert's son, Jack. What do you know of him?"

  
"Jack?" She looked up briefly in thought. "Not much. He's in his late teens. Bright but troubled. I remember Mere saying that he didn't take moving to America well. Had trouble in school and the like." Sherlock nodded knowingly. John wondered what his line of questioning meant. Hopefully Jack wasn't a suspect. It would break Bob's heart.

  
"He doesn't live with Robert and Meredith anymore, correct?"

  
"No, he moved in with some friends about six months ago." Sherlock looked at John but John didn't know why that was significant. "You're not thinking he...are you?"

  
"Inconclusive," Sherlock answered with a wave. "Just gathering all permanent information."

  
Dolores nodded. She pulled her hand out from under John's and he was shocked to notice that it had still been there. He placed his in his lap. Sherlock noticed, of course he did. John suddenly felt guilty, though he couldn't fathom why.

  
"I don't know what else to tell you other than what I have. I'm sure Bob filled you in on the rest."

  
"Yes, you did very well. Thank you."

  
She stood and John stood with her. Sherlock lounged in the metal chair as if he were born in it, didn't even look up as she stood. Prat. "You'll keep me updated?" She asked him.

He didn't answer, he was gone, for all intents and purposes, so John answered.

  
"Yes, we will. You have my word."

  
She smiled. " _Gracias_." John gave her a nod and she gave Sherlock a long look before pulling him aside. "Be careful, John. Will you promise me?"

  
"I...yes." He must have looked confused.

  
"I would hate to find out you had gotten hurt."

  
He smiled, intrigued by her concern. "This isn't my first case. I've dealt with worst, trust me."

  
She shook her head. "Not like this." She looked at Sherlock again. He had his eyes closed. "Not like this," she repeated. He opened his mouth to assuage her fears but she hitched her bag over her shoulder and walked away. He watched her go.

  
"Are you going to heed her?" Sherlock asked softly.

  
John looked down at him. His eyes were still closed. "Not in a million years."

  
Sherlock cracked a sideways smile.

  
They left the cafe and headed up to the river. John rested his forearms on the railing and leaned out over the water. The Mississippi was wide and industrious and John could easily see how settlers had chosen this spot to stake their claim. Sherlock faced the opposite direction, with his back to the water. John watched him out of the corner of his eye, watched the wind off the water ruffle his curls. He looked like he belonged here. Fanciful. He shook his head of the thoughts. Sherlock belonged in London.

  
"It hasn't changed much," he commented.

  
"What?"

  
He nodded forward. "The City. The Square."

  
John turned and gasped aloud. "How did I miss _that_?" He commented on the enormous white church in front of them.

  
Sherlock smirked. "We came in from over there," he nodded to the right. "You wouldn't have seen it over St. Ann."

  
"What is it?"

  
"Jackson Cathedral. This is Jackson Square," he waved to the garden in front with the statue of a man on horseback in central position. "So named for General Andrew Jackson, who won the Battle of New Orleans in 1815. He would later go on to become the seventh President of the United States. That's him on the horse there." He pointed. "He was my favourite American President."

  
"You have a favourite American president?"

  
"Of course."

  
"Of course. Why is he your favourite?"

  
"He was completely insane. He killed several men in duels, beat his own attempted assassin with a cane on the front steps of the White House, signed the Indian Removal Act which uprooted millions of Native people from their homes and yet adopted two Indians and raised them as his own children. He was mad."

  
John laughed. "And America voted him President."

  
"Come now, John. Let us not get into an argument over who has had the Maddest Leaders. We would surely lose."

  
"Yes, I suppose." He chuckled. He took a deep breath. "This is nice."

  
"It smells like fish."

  
John laughed again. "Not the air, you idiot. Just," he waved vaguely at the scene, the moment.

  
"Yes, I suppose," he parroted John's words back at him. He nodded down below. "Would you like to take a romantic carriage ride around the square?"

  
John cracked a laugh, looking down at the horse drawn carriages with couples snuggled together. "No, thank you, _Mr. Holmes_. Despite popular opinion, I am not _yours_." He rolled his eyes.

  
"John," Sherlock said softly, hesitant. "I...I'm sorry again about that."

  
John waved him off. "Don't mention it. You fell into a role, I get it."

  
He looked down at his feet. "Yes, well. Thank you for understanding."

  
"Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate?"

  
"Shut up," he commanded, displaying more natural characteristics. "Let's go."

  
"I'm not getting in that carriage with you."

  
"Not the carriage. I wouldn't truly recommend them to anyone. They're cruel to the animals."

  
"You actually care about the horses?" He asked as the walked down the steps to the street below.

  
"They're not horses. They're mules. And yes, I do care. Does that surprise you?"

  
"Yeah," he admitted. Sherlock scowled. "What? Like you're known for having a bleeding heart?"

  
"It doesn't take a ' _bleeding heart_ ' as you say to feel empathy for a creature in slavery-"

  
"All right, all right," he said with a hand up. "Christ, didn't know I'd hit a sore spot."

  
"I dislike anything that causes undue distress on any creature for the sake of tradition."

  
"Well, that explains Christmas."

  
They walked on the left hand side of the square and Sherlock pointed out art vendors("Reprints, originals, reprints"), the fortune tellers("I could do that and I wouldn't charge fifty quid to do it"), different historical markers("This, John, is a bar known to have been frequented by pirates"). John thoroughly enjoyed himself. They stopped off at a restaurant that Sherlock highly recommended, which turned out to be amazing, despite the fact that Sherlock barely ate his meal. He was taken down Bourbon Street, the girls weren't naked but there were a couple of strippers hanging out front of the strip clubs, begging for patronage. John casually mentioned ducking inside but Sherlock pulled at him until he was well away. He laughed hard at that. They stopped at a voodoo shop, which John had to drag Sherlock out of when he caught him attempting to buy six live chickens from an old woman in the back. They made their way toward the hotel slowly and John didn't mind at all.

  
"So, tell me, how much money did I just save with you as my tour guide as opposed to one of theirs?"

  
Sherlock shrugged, thumbed his nose and drawled, "Bout twenty bucks."

  
John fell into Sherlock, his forehead to his shoulder as they laughed out loud. He looked up just in time to see an elderly woman watching them. The look was a familiar one. 'You are surely bound for hell' it said. John stood up straighter but mentally he rolled his eyes. At this point he didn't care if people assumed anything about them, they were thousands of miles from home after all. Who cared what a bunch of American's thought? He'd never see them again anyway. Part of him wanted to reach out and take Sherlock's hand, just to confirm the horrid woman's suspicions, to see what she would think of that, but he never would. Sherlock would think he'd gone round the bend. They fell into the lift together and rode to the sixth floor, a companionable silence fell between them and John thought, baring the incident at the club earlier and Bob's still missing girl friend, today had been one of his favourite days in a long time. If he could just get some closure for Bobby, it would be the perfect case. They entered the room and Sherlock turned to him.

  
"Why don't you have a kip," he waved at the bed, "I need to do some research and touch base with the local PD and I can do it all from here."

  
"Oh, bless you. I'm beat. I'll just sleep for a few hours." He looked at his watch. "Wake me up at eight?"

  
"Sure," Sherlock agreed.

  
John sat at the end of the bed to pull off his shoes. He stopped. "Promise you won't go out with out me."

  
Sherlock looked up. "Promise."

  
John stared him down, made sure he knew that he meant business before he finished sliding his shoes off. He pulled the thickest of the blankets off the bed and threw it on the floor, not sure if he'd use the sheet he left it on but even with the balcony doors open it was still hot, and he curled up on his side in the bed. He fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock typing away at his computer.

 

 

_It's dark. Wherever he is he can't see a thing. Arms out, hands grasping at nothing, he strains his ears for a hint, some clue to his whereabouts. He's not worried, not just yet, just confused mostly. There. A voice echos. A woman's voice, calling him._

  
_'John. Where are you? Come out, dear. Come play with us.'_

  
_He turns, one way, then the other. The voice is disembodied, everywhere and nowhere, impossible to find in the darkness that surrounds him._

  
_'Come on, John. It's not like you to play coy.'_

  
_'Do I know you?' He calls out._

  
_'No.'_

  
_'But you will.'_

  
_It's then that he realizes that the voice isn't echoing, it's that there are more than one of them._

  
_'Stop hiding, John Watson.' Another commands._

  
_'We will find you.'_

  
_'I'm not hiding,' he tries to tell them. 'I'm lost.'_

  
_'Lost? No, darling, you're right where you should be.'_

  
_A hand, starting from his shoulder to his wrist, caresses down his body. Another grazes the back of his head, fingers threaded through his hair. Yet another slides up his calf. He still can't see but it almost doesn't matter. He's content in the moment to see where this little game is headed._

  
_'There you are,' one of them breathes into his ear. He turns his head, tries to reach out but he grasps nothing but air._

  
_'Why can't I see you? Touch you?' He questions._

  
_'Because you don't want to.'_

  
_'Oh, yes I do.' He fairly vibrates with the tension building in his frame. The hands feel corporal but he can't interact with them. He begins to get frustrated. He never was one for receiving and not sharing the pleasure. Smacks of cowardice. He's about to tell them the hell with it, when a flash of light streaks across his consciousness._

  
_'He is MINE.' Another voice. He knows that voice._

  
_Another flash and finally he sees. He's in a forest. The flashes are lightening from a far away storm, the trees sway with gusts of wind that he can't feel._

  
_'No,' the women cry out. 'He's ours. He wants us, not you.'_

  
_He doesn't correct them aloud, but he does acknowledge to himself that, no, he really doesn't want them._

  
_'He. Is. Mine.' The voice booms, echoing the thunder that by rights should follow the lightning in the sky. He looks out, in the trees something is moving. Something dark and dangerous. He is intrigued._

  
_'No, John. Stay with us. Please.' The voices cry out but he doesn't understand. He hasn't moved._

  
_Another flash of light and he does feel himself back away, just a step. In front of him a rather large black panther has leapt from the tree line. It stalks forward slowly. He knows on some level that he should run, that he has no defense against something of this nature, but he can't help his fascination. The cat moves gracefully towards him, so slow it seems like it takes ages before it reaches him. He holds out a hand._

  
_'I won't hurt you,' he tells the beast._

  
_It lowers its head, its long, black tail flicks back and forth. Common sense tells him that he's about to become cat food but he still holds out his hand._

  
_Without warning the cat pounces. He tenses, waits in the darkness for the pain to come, something to come. But nothing does. He's no longer sure if his eyes are closed or if he's found his way back to the inky blackness of before. He's about to take a step forward to find out when he feels another hand reach out. This time it cradles his cheek. He can't help but lean into it. Instinct pulls his own hand up, he half expects this one to evaporate too, but it doesn't. He still can't see but this time he can touch. He cups the hand holding close to his face and feels the long fingers that caress his temple, his ear, his jaw. He feels immeasurable pleasure just from this simple touch. Where multiple hands caused him frustration, this, this he wants. To touch and be touched. Another hand joins the first and he feels himself pulled forward, his neck tilted up, his legs stretched up onto toes to accommodate._

  
_'You are mine, John Watson,' his breath whispers against John's lips._

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was significantly shorter than the last one but that's only because I liked where I cut it off. Gotta keep you guys coming back. Muahahaha! If anybody wants to correct me on the Spanish, please do! I was using FreeTranslations.com. :/  
> I love the bits where Sherlock gets to show John around New Orleans, because that was really me, getting to show you around New Orleans. It's my favorite place in the world and if you haven't been, I highly recommend it. Thanks for reading, and I hope you stick around for more! I'm gonna pump these chapters out ASAP. I love you all!!!


	3. The Wonder of New Experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's experiences of the last few hours uncover long buried emotions about his flatmate. And to make matters worse, he's asked to participate in undercover assignment to route out their killer that might just send him over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in the open.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Additional Chapter Note: Welcome Irene and Victor to the story. Irene is such a Mama Vamp in this one and, as we all know, Victor literally just exists to fuel John's jealousy. Ah! It's great, I love it! Enjoy!

John sat up with a gasp. _Bloody Buggering Shit. What the hell was that?_

  
"It's ten thirty. You over slept."

  
John whipped his head to the side. Sherlock was rolling the sleeves of his best black Oxford up his forearms. No short sleeves for him, no, he had to look like bloody runway model. He had to look like _that_ after...

  
"I...you...," he stuttered. He slapped a hand over his mouth. His lips still tingled from where he felt like he had just been waiting, very impatiently, for a kiss. Not just any kiss. He looked back at Sherlock in horror.

  
Sherlock looked up politely. "Hmm?"

  
"You...," he shook his head, cleared his throat. "You were supposed to wake me up at eight."

  
"Was I?" He turned and made his way to the loo.

  
"You sodding know you were," he mumbled quietly as he got up. "Oh no." He flipped the sheet back over his lap. "Oh, no, no, no. This is not happening," he mouthed silently. "Stop this. Now."

  
"Did you say something?" Sherlock asked as his head poked around the doorway.

  
John looked up, guilt probably written all over his face. "No."

  
"Get dressed. We're going out."

  
"Where? Did you find a lead?" He asked as he scowled menacingly at his completely unwarranted erection. To no avail apparently. He looked around for his suitcase.

  
"I did more than that. I found our killer."

  
"Killer!" He cried, shocked. "Did the police find her body?"

  
"No and they won't. That's not the point-"

  
"Not the point?"

  
"-I have a lead, a reliable one, and we only have a small window to catch him in the act. Hurry and get dressed. Wear something presentable."

  
"Her body is still missing but you're convinced she's dead. You found the killer with no credible leads in three and a half hours while I was sleeping. Wear something presentable." He yanked his bag up onto the bed and opened it backwards, using the top as a cover for his lower half.

  
"Yes. Do you need to write it down?" Sherlock asked condescendingly as John searched through his bag. His notebook sailed through the air and smacked into the wall behind his head.

  
"You're a cunt and I quit," John bellowed back. Yes, equilibrium. Normalcy. Baseline reading of flatmates reinstated. Inappropriate erection fading.

  
"You'd have to escape first."

  
"Escape," he scoffed as he pulled his good short sleeved plaid button down out of his suitcase. "I've been trained to kill with my bare hands," he mumbled.

  
"Is that a gauntlet, John?"

  
"Hell, yes. I could take you down any day of the week. Easily," he boasted as he pulled a clean pair of socks as well.

  
"Care to test that theory?"

  
He laughed. "You couldn't handle-" He dropped his socks. His face fell before his hand had even unclenched. His stomach hit the floor before the socks did. The inappropriate erection was back.

  
Sherlock was grinning at him. He had fangs. _Fangs._

  
"Fangs."

  
"Yes. Good of you to notice. They're not too ostentatious, are they? I fear they're dominating the mouth region. I haven't worn them in public for years." He turned towards the mirror and checked out his dental work.

  
"You have fangs."

  
He sighed. "John, I have yet to figure out what your reset button is. How do I fix this?" He motioned dramatically.

  
"I have to go," he muttered as he scooped his socks off the floor. He marched past the vampire standing next to his bed on his way to the loo, clothes clutched tightly to his front.  
The bathroom door slammed and he fell heavy against it, dropped the clothes and brought his hands up to tug at his hair. The pain was a sharp release to the pressure in his guts but it did little for his raging erection.

  
"Stop it, stop it, stop it," he mouthed to his crotch. "We've been over this. You've done so well for years. Years! It's the god damn vampire thing, isn't it?"

He had grown up on horror films as a kid, one of the only past times he had enjoyed with his sister growing up, and his favourite had been Frank Langella as Dracula. Harry and he had both been watching for the girls, but if a tiny, unspoken part of him had appreciated Frank's open neck blouses, well, nobody had been the wiser. It wouldn't do to admit it, not when his father had found out about Harry and had looked right at John and with a sneer asked, 'You a queer too?' John had answered in the negative. It was a concession, because it was true, he wasn't gay. Growing up with Harry had been like living in a gay shadow. She was the homosexual in the family, and that was enough for everyone involved. She cried discrimination and prejudice long and hard growing up and it never dented the 'well meaning' speeches about sin from their relatives. John had learned early on to keep his mouth shut about his occasional wandering eye, as he called it. He'd never acted fully on his curiosity, not even when the guys in his platoon had offered. He didn't really know why. It wasn't like he was ashamed or anything, he just never said yes to the offers. Maybe he was waiting for the right person, the right moment.

  
"This is not it, you selfish bastard," he told his dick. "He's our friend. _Friend._ Got it? At most this is fantasy fodder, and you'll be lucky if I let you have that after the Angelo's situation."

  
"Who are you talking to?"

  
John jumped a foot in the air. "No one. I'm on the phone." He winced at that contradictory response.

  
"On the phone with who?" He asked, incredulous, as if John had no one he could possibly be talking to.

  
"Bob. He's just checking in."

  
"Oh. Tell him Meredith will be avenged by tomorrow."

  
John turned and gave the door a quizzical look but responded, "Yeah, I'll let him know."

  
"Be quick about it would you? I told Irene we'd meet her at the club at eleven o'clock."

  
John swallowed and fell back against the door. "We're going back to the club?"

  
"Yes. Is that going to be a problem?"

  
Christ, he could feel Sherlock's voice vibrate through the door. "No, not a problem at all. I'll be out in a minute."

  
"Good."

  
 _Not_ good. Watching Sherlock play vampire in that club was going to be the death of him. He had been living on a knives edge with his flatmate for years, never fulling tipping one way or the other, not even when he was gone and John thought he might...Well if he was being honest, he thought he might have been in love with Sherlock then, but by the time he had waltzed back into John's life, cool as could be, it had wiped the slate clean on that score. He was convinced that he had just been remembering Sherlock with rose colored glasses and his reappearance had reminded him that he would be better suited falling in love with the toaster. This though, this might be enough to tip him at least from somewhat extreme platonic loyalty into sex starved lunatic. He could see it now. Sherlock in his black, tightly clad bespoke attire, hair a riotous mess of ebony curls, clear bright eyes catching everything around him and analyzing it and then, to top it off, the fangs, the commanding presence, the possessive ownership he had already displayed on full blast. John shivered, gooseflesh dotted across his shoulders. He stripped in record time and jumped into the hotel shower, knob twisted all the way to cold. The frigid temp helped a little, but only just. By the time he got out, toweled off and dressed again, his erection had flagged somewhat, but only enough to not be fully noticeable in his dark jeans. He frowned at his reflection. Twenty years ago he might have fit in with the crowd they were about to mingle with. Not so now. He looked like exactly what he was, a washed up ex soldier who had too many scars, some visible, some not, with a middle aged weariness that wasn't attractive to anyone. Especially a bunch of beautiful twenty something year olds with probably more money and free time than anyone deserved. He sucked in his stomach and tried to convince himself he wasn't competing over anything. It didn't work.

  
"Ready?" Sherlock asked. He looked him over as John slid his shoes on.

  
He put on a smile and replied, "As I'll ever be."

  
"Let's go then," he said and turned for the door. He stopped and looked around.

  
"What?" John asked.

  
"I'm not sure," he hedged as he patted down his trousers. "Something feels off."

  
John grinned in a rush of contentment and amusement. "You're looking for your coat."

  
He stopped and looked up with a frown. "Damn this humidity."

  
John laughed. Sherlock handed him his phone and wallet with a smile and they made their way out. He tried not to sneak glances at his flatmates teeth but it was nigh on impossible. They weren't very long, the pointed incisors, but they looked incredibly sharp.

  
"Are they really so obvious?" Sherlock asked as he brought his hand up.

  
John started. "No," he snapped. "I'm just not used to it."

  
Sherlock didn't look convinced. They got into the lift and John found himself leaning forward to get a better look. It wasn't until Sherlock smacked his hand away that John realized that he had been reaching up to touch them.

  
"Sorry!" He looked down at his shoes. "They look real." Sherlock didn't have anything to say to that but he did take an audible breath. "Hey, I've got a question. Where the hell did you get them on short notice?"

  
A pause. "They're mine."

  
"Yours? As in you brought them from home?"

  
"Yep."

  
"Huh. Where have you been keeping them hidden? I've combed the flat more than once looking for contraband."

  
"The better question is why the TSA didn't stop me with them at the airport."

  
"Oh yeah," John chuckled. "Bet they've seen worse though."

  
"I'm sure they have. I once caught a man who tried to smuggle thirty seven leather back sea turtle eggs in his suitcase. The idiots at the gate said they hadn't been trained to detect the smell of reptilian calcium carbonate." He looked down at John as if to say what was the world coming to, and John couldn't keep the grin off his face.

  
"Idiots," he agreed.

  
"Indeed. It wasn't even my case, I just happened to be chatting up a double homicide suspect in the terminal restroom when he walked in."

  
"Chatting up, huh?" John smirked.

  
Sherlock scowled at him. "Not the way you imagine. It was for a case. He was wanted for killing his wife and her lover while they slept. I had just caught up with him before he attempted to flee the country. It was lucky I had because London Metro was useless as always."

  
"I'm sure. Don't think I'm not still picturing you fluttering your eyelashes at him though."

  
"Oh, come off it. I excel at everything I do, flirting included. I would never bat my lashes at anyone."

 _No shite._ "Yeah. I've seen you flirt for a case before. Not bad actually." Not bad didn't cover it. John could still picture the way Sherlock had leaned over that woman at the bar, had tucked her hair behind her ear and then whispered against her neck. He got chills just thinking about it.

  
"Not bad?" He huffed. "I'm a sight better than 'Not bad'. I once charmed an Empress into forgoing a dept owed to Mycroft , in four minutes mind you, just so he would loan me his best telescope."

  
"Oh, really? I once got an American Sargent out of full kit in three minutes, while under fire, and got her off before the airstrike was called in."

  
Sherlock glared down at him. They were on their way out of the hotel and the neon of the street signs colored his face pink and blue. "I once charmed a gun out of a robber's hand with both hands tied behind my back."

  
"With the power of your vibrato alone, I'm sure."

  
"Naturally," he growled. John looked at the window dressing of a women's clothing shop as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

  
He cleared his throat after a minute. "I once had a leg over with my sister's ex after they split." He wasn't sure that counted as a conquest but he was sort of proud of it.

  
"No wonder you and your sister don't get along. You're incorrigible." John smiled and puffed his chest out a bit. "Too bad she did it just to make your sister jealous."

  
"Ah, thanks for ruining my fun, Mate."

  
Sherlock grinned. "Any time."

  
They walked for another minute. John kept his thoughts on the route, the crowd, which had grown significantly since the sun had gone down, the architecture. Pointedly not on the man walking beside him.

  
"Speaking of ruining the mood," Sherlock segued, "I should catch you up on the backstory."

  
"What backstory?"

  
"My backstory." He ran a hand over his forearm, which looked an awful lot like a nervous tic.

  
"All right, I assume you mean your vampire backstory?"

  
"Yes. Most everyone in the club knows who I am."

"With the exception of Kate."

  
Sherlock looked embarrassed at the reminder of what had happened earlier on in the day.

  
"Yes, well, she knows now, I'm sure. She's young, she wasn't aware. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did."

  
"Hey, I understand. Can't have people touching what's _yours_ ," he teased. Sherlock didn't laugh. In fact the look he gave caused John's mouth to dry up. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, go ahead and hit me with it. What's the story?"

  
He didn't answer right away. When he did it was a Sherlock classic of epic proportions that came out in one constant stream of consciousness.

  
"I am a Lamiae. My mother is what has commonly been referred to as a Lamia, a vampiric creature that is born and can also give birth, as she did with my brother and I. I was born in the year 1847, just after The Panic. We were born centuries apart, five centuries in fact, and Mycroft frequently reminds me of the fact. We are born of different fathers, human fathers, you might have guessed, as I look nothing like my brother. His father died in a fire in 1790. My mother met my father approximately thirty years later. She keeps him alive by feeding him her blood. It allows him to stay human but age much slower than normal. I age as well, if you were interested, but again, much slower. I can't get sick. I don't need solid food to exist, just blood. I don't need to sleep. Fire can kill me, beheading, cardiectomy, exsanguination. I came to America just after my third graduation from Cambridge and it was here that I ran into Irene, who I knew from a case I was given some years before. She had been human the last time I had seen her, married and happily at that, but through an unfortunate accident, she had been turned and her husband killed. She's since sworn off men entirely and focused her attentions on more sapphic indulgences. We became fast friends, in as much as I can make friends. She is unerringly clever, positively cruel to those who hurt her or her allies and she can turn even the most hard hearted individual to her cause. She made a sanctuary here in New Orleans for our kind, a place we can be ourselves. It's refreshing, though I'd never say so to her. Her ego knows no bounds." He stopped there, took a shuttering breath and looked down at John. They had stopped walking as Sherlock had talked and John was embarrassed to say he stared at his flatmate with his mouth hanging open. He snapped it shut and swallowed down his first response. _Amazing._

  
"That's quite a thought out backstory," he did say.

  
Sherlock cocked his head and stared back at him, as if waiting on a different answer. "Yes, well."

  
"If I didn't know any better I'd say it was true. You don't eat nearly enough to keep yourself fed. Lord knows you don't sleep enough either."

  
Sherlock smiled. "Comes with the territory."

  
John's gaze glanced off the fangs again. "How much of that am I meant to remember?"

  
"It depends."

  
"On?"

  
"On whether or not you want to be my _Sanguis Cibal._ "

  
"I'm sorry, your what?" _Sanguis_. Sang meant blood...

  
"Literally translated," he looked down and away, "Blood Meal."

  
"No thank you." John shook his head vehemently.

  
"Wait, before you decide, you should know, I've already claimed you as far as they're concerned. It's going to be a given that I drink from you. We live together, they know this, Irene would have told them."

  
"So? Let them think what they want." He was not play acting as Sherlock's walking juice pouch.

  
"John," Sherlock sighed before continuing, looked upwards for inspiration or guidance, either one wasn't quick to come. "Understand, these people are outsiders at best. Dangerous at their worst."

  
"Dangerous? More dangerous than someone assumingly staking them?"

  
"As far as you're concerned, yes. The hunter is after my people, not yours. You're safe from him. You're not safe from those of us who would gladly drain you dry to prove a point to my Family."

  
John glanced over the way Sherlock separated himself from humanity as easily as one would a dog, and got stuck on, "These people are role playing," nodded with his eyebrows raised, "yeah? You said. Why would I be in danger of having my throat slit? That's insane."

  
"I can't..." Another deep sigh. "It's complicated. Just trust me, some of them take it a bit too far."

  
"A bit," he scoffed. "So pretending to be your boyfriend keeps my blood right where it's supposed to be?"

  
"You don't have to be my...boyfriend. You serve a purpose as my live in blood meal. That's all."

  
"Serve a purpose," he muttered. "Don't I always."

  
"You can be my lover too if that makes you more familiar with the arrangement."

  
"No!" John shouted in horror. His face flamed bright red, he could feel it. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "No, blood meal sounds fine."

  
"Fine."

  
"Fine."

  
"It's for your protection."

  
"I get it." He kicked at the ground with his shoe. "How far are we going with this? Do you have to pretend to feed from me or anything like that?" _Please don't notice the bulging erection in my trousers, for the love of God._

  
"Not if it doesn't come up. I understand you're not going to be exactly comfortable with that, so I'll avoid it if at all possible. Just relax and act natural. You don't have to fawn over me or anything sycophantic."

  
John snorted. "Yeah you wish."

  
"Might I remind you, you used several adjectives synonymous with _amazing_ the first night of our companionship."

  
John squinted. "I've used a few adjectives synonymous with massive bellend as well."

  
"Hmm, I suppose that's true."

  
"Exactly. Don't get too excited." He shuffled in place. "C'mon. Let's just get this over with."

  
"Right."

  
They crossed several side streets until they came to the club. John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He looked down at John's hand then up to his face. John let go, conscious of the heat that clung to his hand.

  
"Do you have a plan I should be aware of?"

  
"Just follow my lead and keep a weather eye out for suspicious behavior."

  
John blinked at him. "In a vampire den..."

  
"Yes, well..." He looked down briefly. "I guess keep an eye out for obviously homicidal madmen wielding stakes or machetes."

  
"Right," John nodded. "I'll do that." He watched as a good looking woman in a bikini top strode by and gave him a wink. He smiled and watched as she walked by and thought that it was just what he needed to balance his equilibrium. Sherlock walked away without him and John rushed to keep up.

  
"Do you feel confident about this?" Sherlock asked.

  
"You _care_ if I'm prepared? Wow, you must be worried," he teased.

  
Sherlock didn't answer, which caused a fissure of worry to actually skate down John's spine. They reached the stairwell and Sherlock proceeded him down. The door opened and John was greeted with another riotous crash of big band music.

  
"Winston," Sherlock greeted again as they entered.

  
John nodded to the man as they walked past, trying his best to be subtle as he checked for an enormous black dog. There wasn't one.

  
"Does he ever leave?" John queried.

  
"I'm sure he does," he answered on their way in.

  
"What's his story? Cursed by a voodoo priestess to guard the door for eternity?"

  
Sherlock turned and gave him a look. "No. He's part time security. When it's slow he'll play the harmonica." He pointed to the stage.

  
"Oh."

  
"Disappointed?"

  
"A bit, yeah."

  
Irene stepped away from the white Grecian column near the stage, away from the group of women she had been speaking to, and greeted Sherlock with open arms.

  
"Darling," she said with a kiss on both cheeks. John waited for another slap but apparently that was a one time thing. She turned and grasped John by the biceps. "John, I'm so glad you decided to give us another chance." She smiled, revealing none of the dental wear he expected to be there.

  
He glanced at Sherlock, smiled and said, "Of course. I'm curious to meet some of Sherlock's old friends."

  
She gave him a mock scowl. "Watch who you're calling old, young man."

  
John laughed. She couldn't be a day over thirty five. He had to give it to these people, they kept to the script. "Apologies."

  
"All's forgiven, just don't go calling any of the girls Ma'am. You'll find yourself bled before Sherlock can say, 'It was Ms. Green in the kitchen with the candlestick.'"

  
"He could say that rather fast, if I had to guess." He chuckled at Sherlock's baffled expression.

  
"Exactly," Irene explained. She looped an arm with his as she smiled at Sherlock. "Come, I'll get you a drink. We have a stocked bar here."

  
A shriek rent the air and the three of them turned toward it.

  
"Sherly!" A man in a three piece suit ran at Sherlock and John watched in mute shock as he launched himself at Sherlock, who effortlessly caught him around the waist, and proceeded to get snogged within an inch of his life. John's stomach hit the ground and his pulse rushed thick in his ears. He could only hope his face wasn't showing what he was feeling. Irene seemed to be chastising the man, John couldn't tell, his ears were still ringing, as she carefully peeled his clutching fingers off her arm. The man jumped down from around Sherlock's middle but beamed at him as if the Queen had deigned to grace him with her favor. Sherlock, for all his claims of sociopathic tendencies, seemed embarrassed but still quite pleased to see the man. He didn't even look at John as they chatted. Irene was the only one in the group who seemed to remember John was there. She tapped the man on the shoulder and mouthed something along the line of an introduction, John wasn't sure, and they turned towards him. The newcomer wore an expression of bemused surprise, Sherlock wouldn't make eye contact and John thought he was going to throw up. He held his hand out anyway, smile at the ready, feet planted in case his leg decided to fail him and hoped he actually spoke back to the greeting. He didn't hear a word of it. Didn't even know the man's name. They shook hands and John did his very best not to give in to the instinct to wipe his hand off on his jeans. He didn't look at Sherlock, he couldn't, but he was sure Sherlock still wasn't looking at him either. He didn't know what it meant, what any of it meant. He wanted desperately to leave but he couldn't, they were here for a reason. To find a killer. He looked around, hoping against hope that the guy would be lounging against the wall, obviously sharpening a stake or something, but alas, no. All he saw were more beautiful people in period clothes. The cretin newcomer was back to chatting away with Sherlock.

  
"I'll take you up on that offer now," John croaked out to Irene.

  
Irene smiled understandingly, which pained John immensely, and she lead him to the bar. "What will you have?"

  
"Glen Livet. Neat," he growled.

  
"A man after my own heart." She grinned and gave the bartender the order. "Now, John, if I may be frank," she tapped his forearm with a long, manicured red nail, "do not fret over Victor. It was a long time ago and as I'm sure you know, once Sherlock makes up his mind about something, there's no going back. He chose you, dear, so no worries on that score."

  
 _Victor._ He looked over at the man. Bespoke suit, classic roman nose, dark, swarthy looks, tall, fit.

  
"I'm not worried." He glanced up at the bartender when he dropped off the tumbler of amber liquid. He picked it up and downed the two fingers in one swallow; the burn did nothing for his aching chest. _I'm not worried at all. Sherlock's past isn't my concern. Neither is his present. Nor his future._

  
"Love, your little heart is racing."

  
He glanced over at that. There was no way she could know that. "I'm fine. It's all fine."

  
"All right," she placated. They didn't speak, just watched as a growing pool of people crowded around Sherlock like a flock of groupies.

  
"He's quite popular around here, isn't he?" John swallowed around the lump in his throat. How could he have not known about this? If anything he assumed Mycroft would have brought it up at some point to embarrass Sherlock with. It was obviously a huge part of his past. He was a different person here, more open, _friendlier_.

  
"Well, yes," Irene chuckled. He looked over at her again. "You know," she said with furrowed brows.

  
He shook his head minutely as he looked back at Sherlock. He smiled down at a girl in a 1920's diamond studded frock.

  
"Dear, he's Royalty," she stated, as if this was common knowledge. Christ, these people were mad.

  
"Royalty," John parroted back.

  
"Technically. He comes from Royal Bloodlines, even if he is the younger brother. Mycroft is the _Noctem Rex_."

  
" _Mycroft_ is involved in this?" He bellowed incredulously with a waved hand.

  
Irene cocked her perfectly groomed eyebrow at him again. "Does he tell you nothing?"

  
John took a breath. He was really fucking this up. "I'm new to the, um, specific details."

  
"Ah," she nodded, "I get it. He never did like to be tied down with the Family business, as it were. That's why he does his little detective work on the side. Did he tell you the story of how we met?"

  
John shook his head. He tried to look as if he were interested, she was a beautiful woman after all, even if she was gay, and not look like he was still caught up with what his flatmate was doing.

  
"It was the spring of 1890, I had just retired from the Imperial Opera of Warsaw and was settling down in London, when I met my husband." She smiled fondly. "Godfrey. He was the love of my life. A Barrister with a promising career. Sweet to a fault. A true gentleman. I knew the very second that we met that I would love him until the end of my days. He _knew_ me. Do you know what I mean? That a person can look at you, see your faults and love you despite them? It was wonderful." John looked at Sherlock. "The only thing standing in my way of a blissful marriage was the future King of Bohemia." John looked back at her in surprise. "I had caused somewhat of a scene in my days with the Opera, if you understand my meaning, and Wilhelm was a wonderfully entertaining man. A bit simple, bless his heart, but keen on a bit of fun. We had a short fling and went our separate ways amicably. When his family decided it was time to marry him off, he got it into his head that if the bride's family found out about me it would devastate the whole country. Ridiculous man." She rolled her eyes. "He brought Sherlock in to investigate, who, as you can imagine, cooked up the most elaborate, dangerous ruse to steal from me the only remaining evidence of Wilhelm and my's affair. Just this one small photograph that I kept to remember our time together. He was sure I kept onto it for blackmailing purposes. And, well, maybe I did, but it was still mine to do with as I liked. Imagine my surprise when I learn that I was being followed around town by a lanky gent dressed in all manner of costumes, skulking about in the bushes as I took my morning drives, peeking in the windows while Godfrey and I had lunch together in the sitting room. Ridiculous." She glanced at the lanky gent fondly. "Ended up at my wedding, of all things. Mind you, I knew of Holmes but didn't know it was him when I realized I was being pursued. It wasn't until he tipped his hand in a classic Holmesian display of dramatics that I knew for sure. He came up with this awful stunt, a brawl on my front steps for a start, then he feigns a deadly wound to gain access to my home, faints on my couch, got red paint all over it mind you, then set off a damn fire cracker in my bedroom so the maid would think the house was on fire. Of course I'm in a panic and I played right into his hand, the bastard. I ran after the photograph, the only thing that I knew was a safe guard against the Bohemian Government. He sees and flies from the sofa without so much as a thank you. Then, of course, I'm aware of what has transpired. I've been duped by the great Sherlock Holmes. Being a great actress in my own right I rushed upstairs, donned my trousers and cap and ran to follow. Sherlock might be the most observant man in the world but he never expected to see Irene Norton in a man's attire greet him on the street. Once I confirmed his identity by following him to Baker Street I ran to Godfrey and explained our perilous situation. He agreed that we should flee the country and we left the next morning by train to the coast. I couldn't help just one last tease though, so when I pulled the photograph of Wilhelm and I from it's hidey hole, I left a letter addressed to Holmes and a portrait for Wilhelm to keep as a memento. He later admitted to keeping the photograph for himself, the cheeky man."

  
John, who had been enraptured by the story as he continued to drink, found himself grinning unabashedly at her natural story telling. He was so caught up in the tale that he half forgot that it was made up. She was that good. It was such a easy thing to imagine, Sherlock, walking the streets of Victorian London, dressed in costume, chasing Irene through the fog, causing an uproar in the streets.

  
"That's quite a tale," he said.

  
"Well, it's our beginning. Later, after," she swallowed, "after Godfrey died and I became," she waved vaguely at herself, "I ran into him again. I had established _La Maison Rouge_ to be a safe place for people like us and he just waltzed in, King of all he surveyed. I tried to have him bled actually, before I was notified of his identity in our world. Actually, it was Victor who let me in on that little detail."

  
They both turned toward the pair again. Victor hadn't left Sherlock's side. "How," John stuttered to a stop in embarrassment.

  
"How do they know each other?" She finished softly. "I think you've figured that one out already."

  
He felt gut punched. _It's not your business, John. Leave it alone._ "Yes..."

  
She placed a hand over his. "He's being a complete bastard right now, but don't take it to heart. Even after all these years, he still doesn't understand when he's hurting someone. It's not in his nature to curb his actions to suit people's feelings."

  
"Exactly," John muttered as he continued to stare. He eyes were glued to Victor's hand where it rested easily, naturally, familiarly, on Sherlock's waist. A woman, brunette, attractive, petite, pulled on Sherlock's hand until he followed her out onto the dance floor. He smiled, bemused but clearly keen as she ran to the stage and shouted to the DJ. A new big band number started up and John's jaw dropped as he watched Sherlock snake his arm out and easily catch the woman in a dip when she ran back to him. They proceeded to do a complicated dance routine that was like something out of a Fred Astaire movie. Irene looked at him, her smile fading as she looked him over. He realized then that he had keened out loud. He was whinging in his throat like a dog crying out for attention. He stood up from the stool and pulled his wallet from his trousers.

  
Irene put a hand to his. "Absolutely not. You stay right where you are."

  
He started at the command. "Am I a prisoner now?"

  
"Of course not. But you are on a case, are you not? I can't just let you walk off and leave him here."

  
Damn her. She was right. He shoved his wallet back in his pocket and leaned on the bar, determined not to watch behind him in the mirror.

  
"What's wrong, John?"

  
He really didn't want to explain but apparently, yes, he did, because he answered her anyway. "I've never seen him like this."

  
"Like what?" She asked softly.

  
"This," he waved as he turned around. "Energetic over anything that wasn't a case. Invested in conversation with someone who wasn't a suspect or a victim. Chatting, dancing, flirting. Happy."

  
"Oh, John. That can't be true."

  
"It is." He watched Sherlock flip the girl over his arm like he had done it a thousand times before. Watched him smile at her like he was having the time of his life. Laugh when they received a round of applause for a spectacularly brilliant move in which he tossed her in the air and caught her.

  
"Not at all. He has you and he never keeps anyone. He must love you dearly."

  
John's breath rushed out of his chest. He shook his head, wide eyed and about to panic. Escape was his only thought as he scanned the room for an easy way out. It was so panicked at that point he couldn't even see the door.

  
"Oh, dear. What did I say?" She huffed. "Here, follow me." She took him by the arm and led him away from the bar.

  
"Where are we going?"

  
"To get some privacy."

  
They reached a hallway that he hadn't even seen, dotted with doors along both walls. She opened one at random and pulled him inside. "Sit," she commanded and flung him down on a velvet settee. He only vaguely aware of the decor, he was more interested in getting his breathing back under control. Irene nealt between his legs and pulled his hands from his face.

  
"What is the matter, John?"

  
He shook his head, unable to look her in the eye.

  
"Please, I want to help."

  
He did look up then. Maybe it was the sincerity, maybe he really needed the outlet, maybe it was the whiskey, but something had him opening his mouth. "He doesn't even know I exist."

  
"What? What are you babbling about?"

  
"Sherlock. He doesn't even know I exist. I pay the bills, I fetch the cell phone, I give accurate cause of death, which Molly can do just fine. I listen when he talks, I make sure he's not dead when he lays on the sofa for three days straight, I clean out the fridge. He doesn't doesn't know I exist, and for fuck sake, apparently I didn't know he did either!"

  
"John!" She shook him when he started shouting. "How long have you two lived together?"

  
"Four years," not counting the two that he was gone, "but what does that have to do with anything?"

  
"How long do you think he and Victor were together?"

  
He flinched. "I don't know."

  
"Six months. And they never once lived together."

  
He looked up at her. She had her eyebrows raised to convey the seriousness of her point. "Okay. That doesn't prove anything."

  
"All right. How about earlier today? With Kate. What do you make of that?"

  
It was fake, play acting. A role he fell into. He didn't want to shatter the illusion of her world so he just shrugged.

  
"I've never, not once, seen him act like that towards a young vampire. He's never claimed anyone. Ever."

  
Hmm, maybe it was odd but it still didn't prove anything. "He just doesn't like anyone to touch his stuff."

  
"My God, you are stubborn. What about when he feeds? Don't you feel it then?"

  
John had enough. "Okay, can we time out?" She jumped up when he did. "I'm sorry but I can't keep doing this."

  
"Doing what?" She stared at him, confused.

  
He started pacing. "This!" He motioned around them. "The whole vampire thing. Can we just not?"

  
"Well if I could turn it off I certainly would have a hundred years ago."

  
John groaned and started yanking on his hair. "This is mad."

  
She reached out and snatched him by his arm. He pulled but she was surprisingly strong. "Are you telling me he's never fed from you?" She asked darkly.

  
"Of course he hasn't fed from me. That's mental."

  
She didn't let go. Her nails dug into his skin. "What is he to you, John?"

  
"He's my flatmate. We share a flat." His dejection was back and he sunk visibly.

  
Irene let go of his wrist, which he rubbed at, to pinch the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "Oh, Sherlock, you idiot. You simple, simple idiot," she whispered.  
John watched her, watched whatever thought process she was having. When she smiled he actually backed up. "Have a seat, John."

  
"No," he answered warily.

  
"All right, fine. We can have this conversation standing up if you'd prefer." She started pacing in front of him. She stopped and held out her hand. He stared at it cautiously until she motioned with it for him to take it. When he did she smiled again. "Hello, My name is Irene Marie Adler-Norton. I was born in the year 1859 in Trenton, New Jersey to Donald and Susan Adler. I had six siblings, myself being the fourth. I joined the church choir when I was eleven years old and at seventeen was paid to go to New York by our pastor who was blessedly contemporary in his thinking. Also, he was a bit of a pervert. I was hired personally by Mr. Ned Harrington to sing in his new production company which would later become Vaudeville. I was then hired to work with the Imperial Warsaw Opera, where as you already know, I met Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia. We had a year long fling, which ended in the year 1889. I fled to London after one of his advisers threatened to have me thrown in gaol for prostitution. My timing was fortunate as Sherlock had just dispatched with the Ripper in Whitechapel and if rumor of my hedonistic past made it to the ear of that mad man, Lord knows where I'd have ended up. But I met my Godfrey the year proceeding that and the rest you know of those exploits. Let me tell you how this happened."

She spread her arms out to showcase herself. John sat then and waited for it. She was either stark raving mad or the best story teller he had ever had the fortune of knowing. Either way, he wasn't thinking about Sherlock anymore.

She sat next to him and started. "Godfrey and I set sail for America in May of 1890, just after my run in with His Idiocy, and we settled down in New York for the business opportunities. His legal expertise weren't exactly needed in America but he found work in a legal office as a cleric, just until he could raise enough funds to get into a good school and learn American Law. I did a little stage work on the side, which Godfrey was perfectly amiable to, the dear heart. We made due perfectly well for two years." She stopped to take a deep breath and John had to wonder if she was a vampire, shouldn't she not need to oxygen? But he kept his mouth shut. "It was the dead of winter. Godfrey was on his way home from buying firewood from the corner store when it happened. A man knocked on our door. Normally, Sally, our only servant girl, would answer but she was out that night visiting her sister who was largely pregnant at the time. I answered the door and was immediately accosted by a man in a dark coat and cap. He was large, heavy. I remember that much. I don't remember a lot after that. By the time I came to he was gone." She blinked rapidly, seeming to keep tears from dropping. John marveled at her commitment. "Godfrey must have come home while it was happening. He was lying beside me. The man had snapped his neck. The firewood was scattered around us in the entryway. I'm grateful, really. He died quickly." John found himself reaching out to take her hand, unable to reconcile the pain in her eyes with a false tale. Maybe facets of the story were true. Perhaps that's why she clung to the illusion of this place. "It wasn't until days later that I realized what had truly happened. I became hungry but nothing I ate would satisfy me. Sally wouldn't stop trying, she made every dish she could think of, but I couldn't keep anything down. Everyone assumed it was because I was in mourning. I did too." She blinked several more times. "I attacked Sally. I killed her. My own maid, I attacked her with a letter opener from my husbands desk." She stared at John as if admitting it out loud was a sort of catharsis that she hadn't known she needed. He wanted to say he was glad to help, but he wasn't sure that he was.

"You woke up a vampire?" He hedged.

  
"You still don't believe me." She yanked her hand away and stood. He stood as well. "Stay here. I'll be right back." With that she turned and fled the room. John stared after her in shock. What the hell was going on in this place? Most shocking of all was that he listened to her and stayed in the room. That probably had more to do with not wanting to confront Sherlock though. He glanced around the room they occupied and noticed it looked a bit like a cross between a bordello and his gran's sitting room. The door opened and he stood again when she swept in, wooden box clutched to her chest.

  
"Here," she said and handed it over.

  
He took the thing from her, puzzled at what 'proof' could possibly be inside. She reached out and pulled the clasp that held it closed apart for him. Inside was an antique photograph. John looked it over and, slowly, his eyes widened at what he was looking at.

  
"Now do you see?"

  
"This can't possibly be you..." He wavered. "Perhaps it was done recently and doctored to appear real," he thought aloud.

  
She sighed. "What do I have to do? Bleed you? I won't do it. Sherlock would have my head."

  
John looked up at that. Then back down at the portrait of a seemingly realistic duplicate of Irene in 1890's attire, on the arm of a mountainous man in fur, sporting one hell of a mustache.

  
"Oh, there you two are," came a rumbling baritone. John dropped the box. Before it hit the ground Sherlock reached out and snatched it from the air. John gasped out loud.

  
"Give that back," Irene snapped and tried for it.

  
Sherlock held it above her head and looked it over. A wide grin appeared and he looked down at Irene. "You still have this? You naughty thing. Good thing the Bohemian Crown disbanded in 1920." He chuckled.

  
John felt like he was losing his mind. "What the hell?" He whispered.

  
Sherlock looked over as if he had forgotten John was there. "John! Come, I want you to meet some of my friends."

  
John looked to Irene in a panic. _Help!_

  
"Sherlock, _d_ _arling_ , why don't you give poor John a break from all this and just have a chat. Just the two of you," she practically growled. When Sherlock looked over in confusion she used the distraction to snatch the photograph box from him.

  
"In here?" He asked.

  
"No!" John shouted. Not in the bordello room, for Christ's sake. "No, out there is fine."

  
He didn't wait to see if they followed, he just walked out. To his left, situated along the wall, there were sofas that looked good for lounging. He sat down in an empty spot, arse hit the springs like dropping a tonne of bricks. Sherlock found him in the dark without trying and sat down next to him. They stared off into space awkwardly for the first minute.

  
"About earlier-"

  
"Irene said she stabbed her maid with a letter opener and fed from her." _Smooth, John. Real smooth._

  
"Ah. She told you that, did she?"

  
"Yeah. Crazy, right?"

  
"Quite." He scratched at his hair.

  
"She also said you killed Jack the Ripper."

  
John couldn't see exactly, he was still staring out over the crowd, but he could have sworn Sherlock quirked a smile at that. "That would have been quite the feat."

  
John tapped the tips of his shoes on the floor. Sherlock leaned out over edge of the sofa, wrists draped over his knees, the line of his back curved softly just out of the corner of John's eye.

  
"How far does this go, Sherlock? Do these people live like this all the time? Because Irene has her story down pat, I can tell you."

  
He took a breath. "It varies. Irene would say it's not her lifestyle, it's her life. Georgetta works full time at the Ballet," he waved at his dance partner from earlier, who was on the dance floor still, with another man, "some have families, lives outside all of this. But they all come here to get a bit of relief from the norm. To connect with other like minded individuals."

  
John twisted his watch against his wrist. "So why did you stop?"

  
Sherlock looked over then. "Stop?"

  
"Yeah. You seem to fit in here. They clearly enjoy your company, miss you. You seem to enjoy it. Why'd you quit?"

  
He looked away. "Why else? I got bored."

  
"Oh." John looked down at his shoes. The colored lights of the bar occasionally glanced off the leather, giving them a red glow. He focused on that, or tried to, instead of thinking about Sherlock. Getting bored. With him.

  
"John."

  
He looked up. "Hmm?"

  
"You remember when I said I hoped to avoid having to make this into a physical spectacle tonight?"

  
John swallowed. "Yeah?"

  
"I hate to be the barer of bad news but Victor is attempting to steal me from you. He's being tediously clingy. Don't look," he chastised when John turned his eyes to find the bastard. He snapped his eyes back to Sherlock.

  
"What do we have to do?" He croaked.

  
"Nothing too drastic. I believe if I feed from you he'll take the hint and bugger off."

  
John unconsciously wrapped his hand around his throat. "Feed?"

  
"Obviously I'm not _really_ going to bite you." He rolled his eyes. "It's just a game, remember? They need to think we're playing."

  
"They?" John squeaked.

  
"Henry and Rosa as well. They won't take no for an answer."

  
"Aren't you their Prince or something? Can't you just command that they leave you alone?"

  
Sherlock closed his eyes. "I'm going to kill her."

  
"Don't blame Irene, _you're_ the one who left that out of the backstory. I can't say I'm surprised you'd come to America and tell everyone you were Royalty. King Mycroft though, really?"

  
Sherlock looked affronted but quickly snapped his mouth shut. "Irrelevant. Are we doing this or will you have me batting off attempted suitors all night?" He snapped.

  
"I...I don't know, Sherlock. This is a bit much." He'd never survive.

  
"Just pretend it's like donating blood for charity."

  
"It's not like that at all."

  
"All right, pretend it's for charity but it's also incredibly erotic and clearly something we engage in on a daily basis. If you could be convincing, that would help out immensely."

  
"Oh, is that all? Sure then, come and get it." He snapped and waved sarcastically.

  
Sherlock slid over until their hips bumped into each other. John jumped like he had been burned. His mad, vampire flatmate scowled until he visibly relaxed. And then he leant in and John tensed up again.

  
"Would you relax? No one is going to believe you enjoy this if you're going to tense up like that."

  
"Sorry, _Sherly_. I've not actually ever been vampire bait, if you recall."

  
"Do not call me Sherly. Ever," he growled.

  
"Only Victor gets to do that, huh?" Christ, he sounded jealous there, didn't he?

  
"Victor is a twat and I've raised you in my esteem a bit higher than that."

  
John swallowed past the lump in his throat. "A bit?"

  
"A bit." He smiled and raised his eyebrows, asking for permission to proceed. John gave a perceptible nod. His heart rate skyrocketed as Sherlock leant in again. He didn't comment on it like Irene had, for which he was grateful. He put a hand to the other side of John's thigh to hold his weight as he stretched across John's chest and leaned into the left side of his head.

  
After a beat, John whispered, "You're not going to give me a hickey, are you?"

  
"Not unless you want me to," he said in John's ear.

 

John bit into his tongue to keep from moaning. "Of course I don't."

  
Sherlock chuckled, the air from the exhalation caressed down John's neck, causing gooseflesh to prickle the skin. "You could do a sight better job of pretending you want me to."

  
 _I've done nothing but the opposite for too long._ "Um. What should I do?"

  
"John." He laughed again. "You're asking advise from _me_ about what to do when necking?"

  
He huffed. "This isn't necking, you knob. Necking is fun. This is me pretending to be a walking juice pouch."

  
"It can be fun," he whispered against his throat. "If you would just relax."

  
John suppressed his need to shiver. "Just tell me what to do."

  
He sighed. "Put your hands on me."

  
 _Oh, for the love of god._ He looked away, blinking back actual tears of frustration. His right hand came up and softly landed on Sherlock's shoulder. He could feel the slide of silky cotton against his skin, the warmth of his muscles, the hardness of his scapula. He couldn't stop his left hand from resting on the other side, in front this time, feeling the strength of Sherlock's shoulder and the frailty of his collarbone. The moment felt surreal. He likened it to one receiving a wanted pet for Christmas, only to open the box and find that the pet had died. To hold this man in his arms but know that it wasn't real...

  
"Better. Now put your head back."

  
 _Not a problem_ , he thought as his neck lost the ability to hold his head up . He'd be lucky he didn't pass out at this rate, and they hadn't even really done anything. He worked hard on keeping his breathing steady and not on the fantasy turned reality of the situation. When he felt Sherlock's lips at his throat he couldn't help but jump.

  
"Sorry," they both muttered at the same time. John laughed, a bit of the tension melted as Sherlock did as well. He looked over at the bar to see Irene, who upon noticing his noticing gave him a thumbs up. He laughed aloud again.

  
"What?" Sherlock whispered.

  
"Irene. She's watching."

  
"She would," he growled. He put his mouth back against the tendon of John's neck, this time in the unmistakable form of a kiss.

  
"Oh, Sweet Christ," John whinged.

  
He stopped. "All right?"

  
"Uh huh," John affirmed in a high pitch squeak.

  
"Relax, John."

  
"I'm trying, you berk." He twitched on the seat. He could smell Sherlock's expensive lemon verbena shampoo, could feel the softness of his curls against his temple and, Lord, how he wanted to bury his hands in them. Could he? They were pretending to be intimate after all. Well, Sherlock was pretending.

  
"Imagine I'm just one of your insipid girl friends."

  
John laughed out loud again but stopped instantly when Sherlock sucked on the skin of his neck in earnest. He let out a noise and he prayed it wasn't a moan but he was pretty sure that it was. He felt less self conscious when he heard Sherlock let out a noise of his own. Not a moan, not exactly, but something like a contented sigh. John found that his fingers were clutching at Sherlock and he tried to relax them but he just couldn't. John could feel his blood rise up to meet Sherlock's teeth, like the cells really were about to feed him and were glad to do it. _Think of them and they shall appear_ , he mused. Sherlock opened his mouth against John's throat and he could feel the points of those razor sharp incisors as they drew a path down from his ear to his shoulder. John panted in earnest then, there was no hiding it. He clutched at Sherlock, balled up the bits of hundred quid bespoke shirt in his fist and did his best to intake oxygen. There was a moment of sheer hysteria when he thought he was going to lose his mind, as Sherlock casually placed his hand on John's thigh, and squeezed. Then he moved it up. And then up again. _Christ, what is he doing?_ John shook, his chest bumped into Sherlock's with each breath, and he just _shook_. When he simultaneously bit down softly on John's shoulder and ran his thumb along the inseam of his jeans John couldn't take it any more.

  
"Sherlock."

  
"Hmm," he hummed against his throat.

  
"Stop."

  
The pressure against his skin let up instantly. Slowly, Sherlock raised his head until he could look John in the eyes. They scanned his, taking in his dilated pupils and his raised blood pressure.

  
"I'm sorry," John apologized. He felt ridiculous but he couldn't let it go on, not and remain objective.

  
"Why?" Sherlock asked softly.

  
"I...," he tried to speak past the lump in his throat. He couldn't even look Sherlock in the eye, he was so ashamed. "Because it means something different to me than it does to you." _I want it to be real_ , he didn't say. _I want. God, I want._

  
Sherlock pulled away fully at that. His face shuttered and John watched as he raised off the sofa to his full height to look down at him. "Understood," he said in a low voice, turned with a nod and walked away. John watched in horror as Sherlock snatched Victor from the man he had been talking to and marched off with him in tow. Toward the back rooms. The rooms Irene had said were for privacy. The bloody _bordello_ rooms.

  
John tried to make sense of what he had just happened but it didn't compute. Was Sherlock really...did he just...were they going to...? He snapped his mouth shut. It wasn't his business. He had just told Sherlock to stop, whatever it was that they had been doing, so what did he expect? It wasn't Sherlock's fault that John felt like his chest was caving in. He was dealing with a different creature than the one he knew, he was out of his depth. Whatever it was that Sherlock wanted or needed to do while here, well, he'd just have to deal with it as best he could.

He sat back against the seat and tried not to look like the lone kid at the school dance with out a date. He also tried to mentally explain to his groin why Sherlock was alone in a room with a different bloke and not with them. It wasn't going well. His mind sort of got stuck on the image of Sherlock and Victor. Until tonight John had been convinced that Sherlock didn't have a sexuality. Let alone preferences, past lovers, kinks...

  
Lord help him, he had to know what they were doing. Did he really just drive Sherlock off into another man's arms?

  
He leapt up and started for the rooms, stopped Irene with a hand when she stepped forward. She looked worried but he couldn't concern himself with it now. He made his way forward, possibly looking quite mad, as he put his head to each door until he heard them.

  
"God, Sherly. I've missed you."

  
"Shut up," he growled back.

  
John reared back when one of them moaned. That was all he needed to hear. He turned on his heel and marched off. The crowd did it's best to impede his progress to the exit but he eventually made it. Once outside he took a shaking breath and looked up at the sky. It didn't hold any answers, he knew it wouldn't, so he marched on. He was going to get lost without Sherlock to guide him, but in that moment he didn't care.

  
_What do you think they're doing in there?_

  
"Shut up."

  
_It could have been you._

  
"Shut. Up."

  
_He's shagging another bloke right now because you're a pussy._

  
"I didn't know."

  
_Didn't know he wanted to? When he was sucking on your neck, five centimeters away from grabbing your dick?_

“Christ." He stopped where he stood, let the whole thing wash over him. He had just turned Sherlock down and now he was fucking somebody else. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was fucking somebody. Not John. He bent double, put his hands on his knees, and hyperventilated. "I'm going to throw up." He panted. "Oh, for crying out loud, stop talking to yourself, you nutter."

  
"Ha! I've been there, man," some University aged kid called out to him from down the street. "Good luck!"

  
John gave him a nod and walked on. Eventually when he owned the fact that he had truly gotten himself lost, he pulled his phone out and typed in the directions. About twenty minutes after that he rounded the corner to their hotel and made his way silently to the room. When he got inside, he made the monumental mistake of catching his own reflection in the mirror. Not only did he look like someone had just died (thanks middle aged depression face) but he was also sporting a decent sized hickey high up on his neck.

  
"Great. A memento." He chucked his stuff at the desk and fell into bed, shoes and all. After staring at the bedside table, in which there wasn't much to distract himself with, he rolled over and turned on the telly via the remote. That only served to remind him how far from home he truly was, so he turned it off after a few minutes of flipping through channels. He set the remote down and rolled to turn the lamp off. It had been a shit night and he was just emotionally exhausted enough to force himself to sleep it off. Took some doing but he managed to shut his brain off around two in the morning.

  
Something, he wasn't sure what, woke him two hours later. It was dark, quiet, nothing moved that he could see or hear but he still felt as if something had woken him. The balcony door was ajar and he knew he hadn't opened it before he'd gone to sleep. He rose from the bed, silently as possible, and went to the door. He hadn't been able to bring his gun(damn Sherlock for assuring him he wouldn't need it) and now he was really angry about it. The curtains blew around his legs as he moved in front and he stopped abruptly when he saw a figure against the railing. It was Sherlock, of course. Now that he thought about it, he could smell the smoke from the cigarette Sherlock was smoking.

  
"You promised you had quit," he told the figure with his back to him. He didn't move other than to flick the cigarette ash.

  
"I lied," Sherlock said flatly.

  
"Yes. Clearly. Don't suppose they can kill you, being a _vampire_ and all."

  
"You'd suppose correct. Are we finished nagging then?"

  
"Never." John smiled, though Sherlock couldn't see it. He eyed the long line of Sherlock's body against the dark of the city and sighed, just a little.

  
"I made an arrangement with Victor. You won't have to do that again."

  
John took an involuntary step back, his hand came up as if to deflect a blow. He blinked several times to soothe the ache of his eyes. _What if I want to do it again? Tell him! Say, what if I want to?_

  
He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Sherlock beat him to the punch.

  
"I'm only telling you because our killer didn't show tonight. We'll have to go back again tomorrow night."

  
Oh, Christ. He'd forgotten all about the case again. He'd walked out on Sherlock with a mad man killing vampires around town, with Sherlock playing their fucking Prince. He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled.

  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have left when I did."

  
"No need to apologize. You were no longer needed." He flicked his cigarette over the railing and walked past John into the room, without seeing or with out caring what his statement had done to him. He stood in the doorway, sight unseen, as Sherlock prepared to lay down. John stepped out onto the balcony and sat down with his back to the hotel. Knees pulled up, wrists hanged off them, he stared off into the distance.

  
_It's better this way. It's better this way. It's better this way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I'm doing the bare minimum of editing with this one guys, so it's bound to be chock full of errors. I'm just too impatient to get it out there. When you find them, and you inevitably will, please let me know. I got no Beta!! Also, this story is gonna take a turn for the angsty, like really, really fucking angsty, so I apologize ahead of time. Stick with it, you know there's going to be a happy ending.


	4. The Truth Will See You Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up and discovers some hard truths. No breakfast in the world can help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in the open.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Additional Chapter Notes: This used to be two short chapters but I'm getting so impatient with the editing, I just said fuck it and tossed both together. My prerogative, right?

The next morning John found himself in bed, though he had no recollection of how he had gotten there. Last thing he remembered was sitting out on the balcony. He sat up fully when the entire memory of last night flooded in. He glanced over at Sherlock's bed but of course the prat wasn't in it.

  
"Sherlock?" He called out cautiously. He didn't receive an answer. He checked the night stand for a note of some kind. Nothing. His phone had three messages but two were from Bob and one from Mrs. Hudson texting from Mrs. Turner's mobile. He rubbed a hand over his face in annoyance. It was just like Sherlock to run off and leave John alone when he had sworn he wouldn't. 'That promise was only good for yesterday', he could hear Sherlock's excuse.

  
"Git," he mumbled as he got up. He waited a full hour, just in case Sherlock had gone out for ice or food or a swim, before he tried calling. It rang out until the voicemail picked up. He thought about chastising his flatmate for abandoning him but the memory of Sherlock's dismissal last night still stung, so he just hung up. His stomach rumbled and he realized that he hadn't had anything in his stomach but whiskey since yesterday around three. A flip through the hotel map of the city showed several restaurants in the area, so he memorized a few locations and set off by himself. It seemed pathetic but he felt more dejected by having to go out by himself to eat than he had last night after leaving the club. Possibly because the cause of his melancholy then had been the loss of an opportunity, and this, this was the loss of his friendship. He kicked at the sidewalk as he waited on traffic to clear. A hole had opened in the pit of his stomach.

  
"Johnny!"

  
John looked up to see Bob jogging after him. He stopped and gave Bob a smile. This was what he needed, normal friendships, with out the added complication that came with being friends with Sherlock.

  
"Bobby, I'm glad you stopped by. I was about to go out for breakfast. Care to join me?"

  
"Sure, Mate. I know a great place. Follow me." He lead John to the trolley, which they hopped on to John's delight, and rode down St. Charles. Bob pointed out the beautiful houses along the way and for a moment John forgot all about Sherlock and the issues that had plagued him the night before. They hopped off the trolley and walked a few blocks to Magazine St. The restaurant that Bobby took him to was a little hole in the wall place that, despite it's size, had a line of customers that waited outside. They wrote their names on the list and sat on the pavement to wait.

  
"Sorry Sherlock was out when you stopped by. I don't really have any updates to give, other than he seems to think he knows who the guy is that took her but he won't tell me who."

  
"It's fine. I'm being realistic about what happened to Mere. She's gone, Johnny, I know that."

  
"Ah, c'mon. Have some hope."

  
He shook his head. "I talked to some Mates that are with other vamps around town. They said she wasn't the only one."

  
"Yeah, Sherlock heard the same." Bob glanced over shyly and John's instincts pinged. "What?"

  
"It's none of my business..."

  
"What?" He demanded.

  
He sighed. "Apparently Karol told Christina, who told, oh, what's her name, Julia I think, who told Mark, who told me that you and Sherlock..."

  
John closed his eyes. "Oh, my God. How old are you people?"

  
"I'm sorry! I know better than to listen to rumors but..well...why didn't you tell me Sherlock was a vampire too? And the God damned King's brother to boot! I didn't know, I probably looked like an asshole, telling him what was what."

  
John looked down the street, unwilling to talk about Sherlock at all but Bob was like a dog with a bone when he wanted to know something. "We're not together, just to clear that up. And I didn't know Sherlock was into this shit when we came. I just found out yesterday myself."

  
"You've been living with a vampire for years and you didn't know," he stated, unbelieving.

  
"He hasn't been doing it since we've lived together."

  
Bob cocked an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

  
"Being a 'vampire'," he explained, throwing up the air quotations.

  
Bob scowled. "What?"

  
"Bobby," John started, "you do understand that it's not real, right?"

  
Bobby opened his mouth and then closed it. A waitress called their names and they hopped up to get seated. The table was sticky with syrup but John didn't mind, it seemed to give the place character. He ordered an orange juice, Bob a coffee and water, and then settled in.

  
"John. Hmm, I'm not sure how to approach this." He laid his hands down on the table. "What did Sherlock tell you?"

  
"About the role playing?"

  
Bob nodded slowly.

  
"He said he was into it when he was younger. He gave me his whole backstory about his family and that. I met Irene. She's really into it, isn't she? Christ, her backstory is so in depth it's ridiculous."

  
Bob nodded again.

  
"I met a guy named Victor. He's an ex of Sherlock's, I guess." He tore at the napkin in his hand. "I didn't really talk to him though. He's decent enough, I suppose. Probably from a rich family. He's tall. I guess that's good, if you're into things like that."

  
He looked up when Bob made a choking sound in his throat. He was hiding a grin behind his hand.

  
"What?" John growled.

  
"You, oh God, John, you're so jealous."

  
"No I'm not!"

  
Bob let loose a massively loud cackle that traveled through the restaurant and had everyone looking their way.

  
He wiped a tear. "Thanks, Mate. I needed that."

  
John sat petulantly in the booth with his shredded napkin.

  
"You honestly don't see it, do you?"

  
"No and neither do you. Drop it."

  
"Sorry. I'll leave that one alone but, Mate, I'm about to drop a bomb on you that you need to be prepared for." He looked around the restaurant before he leaned in and mock whispered, "Vampires are real."

  
John had to work hard not to roll his eyes. "I don't have the patience just now to argue with you about it."

  
"Johnny." He took a breath. "Meredith used to bite me during sex and would take anywhere from a pint to a liter of blood in one sitting. This is a fact. You're a medical man, what happens to a human who drinks a liter of human blood?"

  
John stared at Bob in horror. "She would be violently ill before she ever reached a liter of blood."

  
"Exactly. Not only did she not become violently ill, she would go for the next two weeks on what I gave her in one sitting. We lived together for almost five years, she almost never ate food, she only took what she needed from me." He looked away in memory. John didn't know what to think.

  
"I don't know what to say. Sherlock doesn't drink human blood, Bob."

  
"From what I hear he doesn't live as a vampire anymore. He's most likely drinking from donated blood packs."

  
"No...," John hedged but he was lost in thought now. Every empty plastic blood bag he had found in the trash over the years. "They're for his experiments..." He didn't even sound convincing to himself. Suddenly everything coalesced, every clue he had ignored up until now. Sherlock's certainty that Meredith's body wouldn't be found. Dolores's initial reaction to Sherlock and her strange manner when questioned about her friend. His inexplicable terror when the seemingly young and innocent Kate propositioned him. And then Sherlock himself. Jesus, he felt like a teenage girl just thinking about it but honestly, he was pale, he didn't sleep or eat enough to keep a human alive, John had said so on multiple occasions, he could be silent as the grave, quick as lightening, his speech patterns, nobody talked like that anymore, not even posh, public school blokes like he purported to be. The fangs! And Irene's story... Christ if it was true, that meant Sherlock really was a hundred and sixty years old. He stared at the place mat in front of him as an epiphany of titanic proportions mentally derailed him. "He walks around in the sun though," he muttered to the table.

  
Bob chuckled. "That's a myth."

  
John started breathing heavy through his nose.

  
"All right, what can I get for you guys," a bloke with a bandanna around his head asked.

  
John looked up at the kid. He felt like he was going to cry. "I've gotta go." He stood up but Bob snatched him and pushed him back down.

  
"He'll have the breakfast sampler, eggs scrambled with sausage. I'll have the same with banana walnut pancakes."

  
The guy looked between the two of them, jotted his note down and left without another word.

  
"Johnny. John. Get it together, Mate."

  
"My...Bob." He started heaving. "Bob, my flatmate is a vampire."

  
"Yeah, I know. I tried to tell you."

  
"Bob!" He slapped his hand down the table. "I let a _vampire_ suck on my neck last night!"

  
Bobs eyes flitted to the mark on his neck at that but he didn't comment. He pulled John up by his shirt and walked him out past the kitchen, down a hallway, to the back garden. He sat him down on a bench and helped him tuck his head down between his knees while he hyperventilated. A chicken walked past his feet and pecked at the ground. _What the fuck?_ He thought wildly. _What is happening in my life?_

  
"Better?" Bob asked with a hand to his shoulder.

  
John shook his head. He wiped at the sweat that seemed to pour from his forehead.

  
"It's all right," he tried to soothe . "I only took it a sight better than you did, but in your defense I had only been dating Mere for six months at the time. You and Sherlock have been together for years."

  
"We're not...we're not..." He started hyperventilating again.

  
"Whoa, Mate, breathe." He crouched down, still a head taller than John he noted, and steadied him with both hands on his shoulders. "Take a deep breath. In and out."

  
"Yes, thanks, Bobby. I had forgotten how oxygen intake worked."

  
"Oh, thank God. You're back."

  
"Fuck off," he muttered without steam.

  
The waiter walked out side. "There you guys are."

  
"Sorry. Is our food ready?"

  
"No, I was just checking that you hadn't bailed." He turned without another word and went back inside.

  
John and Bob looked at each other. The chicken pecked at the ground.

  
"I feel like I've fallen into another dimension."

  
Bob chuckled. "Welcome to it. I'm sorry I got you into this mess, Mate."

  
"No," he shook his head. "No, I'm glad you did. I can't believe I didn't see this coming." He looked up in horror. "Oh my God! Mycroft is the King of the Vampires! I've threatened him so many times. We stole his credit card to fund this bloody trip!"

  
Bob made a face, sort of a cross between pride and 'Nice knowing you'.

  
"I'm good. Yeah, I can deal with this. It'll be fine." He pursed his lips, stood up from the bench and walked back into the diner. He sat in his seat with a thump and drummed his hands on his thighs.

  
"You really going to do this?"

  
"Do what?" He scowled.

  
"You're going to bury this and act like it's not a big deal."

  
"So?" He took a sip of his orange juice and looked out the front window.

  
"John," he sighed. "You're rooming with vampire Royalty. Please process that."

  
"Wonder what the groupies would think about the fact that Sherlock has a sock index? Or that when Mrs. Hudson plays the Bee Gees, Sherlock taps his toes unconsciously. Or that I'm the only person in the world that can get Sherlock to clean up after himself. Vampire Royalty," he scoffed. "It all makes so much sense now, you know?" He looked up at Bob. "What?" He snapped.

  
He put his hands up. "However you need to deal with it."

  
"I am dealing with it," he stated. "I am."

  
Bob nodded sympathetically. They sat in silence until the food arrived. The waiter set the plates down and they tucked into their food, Bob with gusto, John not so much. Not only was his stomach no longer up to the task, he sort of missed his English beans and toast. He caught Bob staring at the hickey and he hunched down in his seat in embarrassment.

  
"Johnny?"

  
"What?" He grumbled.

  
"He's never bitten you before?"

  
"I think I would have noticed something like that."

  
"Yeah," he chuckled. "You would."

  
Something about the way he said it caught John's curiosity. He toyed with the eggs with his fork. Never one to back down from a challenge he asked, "What's it like?" Bob let out a huff of amusement. "I mean it can't be too horrific or you wouldn't have stayed with her."

"Too right," he said and looked away in remembrance. "It was the single greatest physical thing I've ever experienced. The birth of my son was the only thing that could compare to how miraculous I found her."

  
"Hmm," John mumbled.

  
"John," he hedged. "Do you understand how incredibly insane it is that you've lived with Sherlock for years and he's never bitten you?"

  
"I mean, I guess. If you say so."

  
"Think of it like this: Sherlock has marooned himself on a deserted island with a grilled steak and he's contented himself with coconut milk."

  
He smiled a bit at that. "I'm the steak, yeah?"

  
"Yeah," he nodded. "you're the steak." He looked at the hickey again.

  
John put a hand up to it. "It was for the case."

  
"Uh huh," he agreed.

  
"It wasn't like that."

  
"Right." He smiled. "Just licking the steak."

  
And now John was wondering why Sherlock had never bitten the steak. Was there something wrong with him? Maybe he smelled bad? "Ah, Christ." He dropped his head. There was something wrong with him. He was actually _disappointed_ now that he hadn't been bitten by a vampire! He'd gone from being horrified at the thought to being affronted at the lack.

  
"Just ask him."

  
John looked up. "What?"

  
Bob smiled knowingly. "Just ask him to. The worst thing he'll say is no."

  
He shook his head vehemently. "No."

  
"You wouldn't sound so sure if you knew what it can be like. I'll admit, it hurts a bit if they're not turned on, but if they are." He huffed. "It's like being pulled inside out in the best possible way. I can't describe it well enough but trust me, once I let her sink her teeth in, it was all up to her to stop because I would have let her keep going until I was dry." His breath hitched and he looked away. "Look, I know it's been years since we've been close, but," he put a hand to John's arm, "you've not changed all that much that I've seen. You chase criminals for a living after all. Not that much different than crashing the gate at a Slayer show. You crave danger. And what could be more dangerous than living with a vampire? You're not going to be able to get it out of your head until you know."

  
John cut off a sob before it escaped. Bob was right. He'd only just found out about it and he had already been angry that Sherlock hadn't ever attacked him. He was sick at the thought of Sherlock receiving physical attention from somebody else, Victor, but he could explain that away by the fact that Sherlock had regressed to a state he had been in years before, one in which he clearly had been sexual. But added to that, this new vampire aspect, John had to wonder, why hadn't he ever taken what he needed from John? He was a glutton for pain, John knew that, with his abstaining from anything that made a human a human, but now that no longer applied. That was just his nature. So was he denying himself the ease of access because it was just the way of him, ignore the transport? Or did this go back to The Fall? Sherlock couldn't depend on John to keep his mouth shut? He needed to figure it out because if he just flat out didn't want to bite him, that was fine, but John felt like that might not be true. He'd come pretty close to it last night. Where would he have stopped if John hadn't ended it when he did?

  
"C'mon. I'll get the check and we can go back to my flat."

  
John looked up, grateful for the distraction. "Right." He stood, threw a twenty down onto the table and walked to the front pavement. The sun was high now, he squinted into the light and wondered what he was going to do with this new found knowledge. Bob clapped him on the back as he exited the diner and they made their way back to the street car line at a leisurely pace. John checked his mobile for messages while they waited. Nothing. He typed out a text, letting Sherlock know he was with Bob. Despite how he felt in that moment about Sherlock, he still had common courtesy. The trolley rolled up and they boarded with the other passengers.

  
"So Sherlock didn't tell you anything about who he thinks the killer could be?"

  
John's mind wandered to Sherlock's odd questions about Jack but it would be crass to bring it up to the boy's father. "No, sorry. He doesn't share a lot with me, I'm afraid." He smiled self deprecatingly.

  
"I hope he knows better than to run after a hunter by himself."

  
"He doesn't. He really doesn't."

With that thought came the memory of those two years. It made sense now, how he had survived the Fall, but being a vampire still didn't mean he should have gone off on his own to take down Moriarty's network. It made him even more livid at Mycroft for letting it happen, knowing he'd had not only access to the entire British Government resources but the vampire realm as well. He tried not to think on those years but they lingered in his mind like a fever that refused to be suppressed. Being alone, truly alone, not like he had been before Sherlock, was the lowest point of his entirely miserable life. The absence of Sherlock was like a mortal wound on his own person that had festered, unable to heal because he couldn't find the point of entry, and it had killed him just as invisibly. Mrs. Hudson had called his sister and suggested he be sectioned. Maybe he should have been. He stared out of the trolley windows, watched the trees go by with their Mardi Gras beads that still hanged from branches, and try as he might, he couldn't imagine this new found knowledge of Sherlock's nature changing the fact that he needed the bastard like he needed air. He let Bob natter on about God knew what, with the bare minimum of hummed acknowledgement. They hopped off the trolley at Canal Street and walked the few blocks to his flat. He looked around as Bob unlocked the door and proceeded him up the stairs to the second story.

  
"I got this baby in a foreclosure two years ago. Deb, my manager, listed it as 'Not Haunted' but it is. It really is. When it rains you can hear a woman screaming from the down the hall." He tossed his keys in a dish by the door. John looked around the flat, beautiful in its classic architecture, depressing in its obvious feminine touches since the woman of the house was probably dead. "Did I tell you Jack moved in with his girlfriend a couple months ago? I miss having him around the house but he's nineteen now so what _Jesus, Mary and Joseph!_ "

  
He started at Bob's outcry. "What?" He followed behind to see what had scared him. "Oh."

  
There was a vampire sat, lounged really, with his long arm along the back of the couch and one foot crossed over his knee, in Bob's living room. He leveled a stare at John, clearly reading his face like a book, noting his clenched hands and planted feet. His hesitation, his confusion, and ashamedly, his touch of fear, it told Sherlock what he needed to know.

  
"Took you long enough to figure it out." Well, there it was. A confession. John tried to think of something to say but nothing came out. "No worries, John. You're safe from me. Bob on the other hand." His eyes turned to Bob.

  
"Me? What did I do?" He asked.

  
"I don't need to guess what happened here," he waved at John standing in the doorway, "it's got meddling Scotsman written all over it. Don't you think if I wanted John to know I'd have told him myself?"

  
"Now hold on," John spoke up in Bob's defense. "You had no right keeping something like this from me."

  
Sherlock leaned in menacingly. "Didn't I?"

  
"No! We've lived together for years, for Christ's sake! Were you ever going to tell me?"

  
"No." He shrugged. "Why would I?"

  
Why-" He closed his eyes, lest he give into the temptation to leap across the room and strangle the man. "'I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end, also I'm a vampire'....oh, wait, no, that last one never got mentioned."

  
"If you think my being a vampire is the worst thing about me, you haven't been paying attention."

  
"No, you're right. The worst thing about you is that you're a selfish, inconsiderate twat who hoards secrets like Mrs. Hudson hoards chocolate digestives. I've never done that to you, Sherlock. I don't keep things from you."

  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

  
John lowered his eyes and blinked at the floor. When he looked up again it was with a scowl. "I've never lied about what species I am."

  
"Oh, come off it. It affects nothing. I'm still the same person."

  
"It affects everything!" He bellowed. "You're not human!"

  
He looked away, lips pursed. "Some would say that was true and they don't even know what I am."

  
"Don't," he shook his head, "don't pull that on me."

  
He spread his hands out. "Tell me then, John, how would you like me to apologize for the accident of my birth?"

  
John took a stabilizing breath. "Stop trying to manipulate me into feeling sorry for you."

  
"All right." He sat back against the couch. "What exactly is the issue here?"

  
"The issue?" His eyes must have been bugging right out of his skull. "Christ, you've made making me feel like the mental one into an art form." He threw his hands up in the air. "You're a fucking vampire! You've been lying to me since the day we met. You probably sit in our flat while I'm asleep and drink human blood at our kitchen table." His voice broke. "You're going to outlive me!"

  
Sherlock went from sitting to standing in an instant. "You think I don't know that?" He angrily growled.

  
John took a step back. He couldn't look Sherlock in the eye anymore and as he turned away he quickly realized that Bob had sneaked off at some point, to give them privacy. He hadn't even noticed and he should have.

  
"Are you going to help me tonight?"

  
John sighed. "Yes, of course I am."

  
Sherlock crossed the living room without stopping and muttered, "Then I'll meet you there at nine."

  
"Wait," he said. Sherlock didn't stop. "Dammit, Sherlock, wait."

  
The front door closed with a slam. John fell back against the living room wall, suddenly exhausted. There must have been a balcony out in the kitchen because he heard another door squeak and Bob walked in a second later.

  
John looked him in the eye and commanded, "Tell me everything you know about vampires."

 

Several hours later, John stood in front of Bob's bathroom mirror, in a three piece suit, (sans jacket, it was too bloody hot for that) and contemplated how obvious he looked now that he had it on. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, dressing to the nines to feel less middle aged and pathetic. Now he just looked middle aged and pathetic in a eight hundred dollar charcoal and navy suit. He tugged on his waistcoat and mentally went over everything Bobby had told him today about Sherlock's kind. Lamia were the first of their kind, women capable of birthing children of their species, Lamiae, just as Sherlock had said. They were blood drinkers that were immune to the sun and slow to age. They could pass on some of their traits to humans via blood transfusion, which Bob said had been described to him like a virus. Turned vampires were more susceptible to the sun, had to cut their victims, as they didn't have fangs, and were frozen in the bodies they were changed with, but were less likely to be long lived as they were usually the first to be killed in some other way. Mycroft really was their leader(shocker) but also really did have a hand in human politics as well. It was a lot to take in but John couldn't go into another situation unarmed like he had yesterday.

  
"How's it going in there?" Bob asked through the door.

  
John sighed and tugged the door open. "It went."

  
"I knew that waistcoat was a good idea. You can't go wrong in a waistcoat."

  
John rolled his eyes. "This was a terrible idea. I look like I'm trying too hard."

  
"Johnny," he chastised. "You look like a million quid. Stop fretting like a girl and get on with it."

  
"I'm not fretting like a girl," he denied and tugged on the waistcoat again.

  
Bob pulled him in with a massive arm around his shoulders. "C'mon. What happened to the lad who could pull Meghan McGonnal when she _wasn't_ drinking? Or the guy who broke a bottle over that twat's head from the Liverpool gang the night of the big game? Huh? You remember that?"

  
John chuckled. "Yeah I remember."

  
"Well? What happened? You gone soft on me?"

  
"No."

  
"I can't hear you..."

  
"No, I haven't gone soft."

  
"All right then. Give me that Watson confidence I know you're capable of and let's go show those vamps what for!"

  
He grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I got this."

  
"Right. Now, remember, born Lamiae have fangs, made vamps don't. The Lamiae are the ones you have to watch out for because they're going to be faster, stronger, and charming as hell, so keep an eye out for the fangs. Good thing about _La Maison Rouge_ is they'll be out where you can see them, so you'll have an advantage there."

  
"I'll be fine. I'm rooming with the crowned Prince after all," he said with a snort.

  
"Technically he's not in line for _Noctem Rex_ unless he fights Mycroft for the title."

  
"Yeah, no chance of that happening. He might fight him over a Hobnob, but not a Kingdom."

  
"If you say so. I don't know anything about Mycroft honestly. Didn't even know his name until yesterday."

  
"He's a prat. I'm not shocked that he's a vampire King really. It's Violet that I can't wrap my head around. She's the soul of Motherly Affection. She made shortbread sandies the day we met. Had this apron on with little sheep jumping over a fence printed on it."

  
"Really? I heard she can be quite monstrous when she puts her mind to it."

  
John tried to picture her hurting a fly and it just didn't compute. He shook his head, glanced down at his watch and blew out a shaky breath. "Into battle?"

  
"Ready when you are."

  
"Let's go." He grabbed his stuff and they headed out. It seemed like everything in the French Quarter was within walking distance, it only took a few minutes to get to the club from Bob's flat. They stopped just outside and Bob looked around.

  
"Is Sherlock meeting us out here?"

  
"Oh," he thought back to their brief conversation. "He didn't say. He just said to meet here at nine."

  
"Well, how are we supposed to get in then?"

  
"I would assume we just open the door." He cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

  
"And how do you suppose we get past Winston without an escort?" He snapped back.

  
"What do you mean? I walked right by him the first time and I was by myself."

  
Bob stared at him. "And he didn't attack you?"

  
John thought back to yesterday afternoon when he had witnessed with his own eyes a giant black dog snap at the two blokes who had tried to enter. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Winston is the dog," he stated dryly.

  
"Yeah. Technically he's a shape shifter I think. Something like that. But he doesn't let anyone in without an escort or express permission."

  
Baring the fact that shape shifters also existed, he thought of his ease of entry. "It doesn't make sense," he stated. Unless...Unless Sherlock knew he was following him yesterday and told Winston to let him in. But that meant he wanted John to come in. Wanted John to know what he was doing. He couldn't make sense of it. "Only one way to find out."

  
"All right but you're going in first."

  
"Yeah thanks, mate." They made their way down slowly, both too proud to admit they were scared. He hesitated before twisting the knob, but only just. The music that spilled through was some melancholy number from the fifties.

  
"Winston," he greeted the man upon entering.

  
"Gentlemen." The shape shifter tipped his hat at both of them as they walked past.

  
John looked back at Bob with a smile. "I know people," he bragged.

  
"Yeah, yeah," he drawled and shoved John forward.

  
The first person, shockingly, to approach him was Kate, looking both contrite and sexy in turn.

  
"John," she bowed her head. "I'm glad you came. I'd like to formally apologize for-"

  
"Stop. Stop right there." She looked up, wide eyed, like she was waiting for the axe. "It's fine. I was flattered, really. You don't have to apologize."

  
"Oh," she grinned. "Okay. Well, in that case." She reached out and linked arms with him and pulled him along to the bar. He looked back at Bob, who gave him a thumbs up and then turned to meet an acquaintance.

  
"I'll just have a Foster's, if you've got it," he told the bartender, who nodded. He turned to Kate. "Does he ever talk?" He asked with a smile.

  
"James?" She looked off into the distance. "No. Not anymore."

  
"Okay," he drawled, sure he didn't want to know that story. "So, what brings you here tonight?"

  
"You," she smiled prettily. "And Sherlock. Everyone in town is here to see him. He hasn't been back in New Orleans for something like seventy years. Before I was born."

  
"Oh yeah? How old are you? If you don't mind my asking," he quickly added. He sipped at his beer when the silent bar keep set it down.

  
"Forty three." She batted her eyelashes at him.

  
"Oh, thank God." He laughed in relief. "Now I don't feel bad for...Well, it's a good thing. You look great."

  
"Thanks. Being Undead has that effect," she said dryly with a laugh.

  
"You're not really, that, are you?"

  
"No, Dear." She put a hand on his arm. "Just a little inside joke. My heart is still going strong. I'm young enough to remember the Hammer films, I don't get offended by the 'U' word. Just don't go pulling it out in front of the elders. They're a bit touchy on the subject. Some of the really old ones don't even like the term vampire."

  
"Really?"

  
"Yeah, learned that lesson early on. Can't believe Sherlock never told you that."

 

"Yeah, well, there's a lot he's never told me."

  
She hummed noncommittally. John took another swig of his beer and looked her over. Too bad Sherlock had called hands off as far as he was concerned. Kate was a middle aged man's dream. She was his age, with his interests and life experiences, but in the body of a twenty year old. "So, you liked Christopher Lee as Dracula? I was a Frank Langella fan myself."

  
She grinned and looked at him sideways. "Yeah? Sexy, that one."

  
John choked a bit on his beer. "That's not why...oh, Hell."

  
Kate laughed. "It's too bad you and Sherlock are an item. I like you."

  
"We're not-" He hesitated. As far as these people were concerned, they were an item. "We're in an open relationship."

  
She laughed long and hard over that. "Nice try. You trying to get me killed?"

  
He smiled. "Sorry. It was worth a try."

  
"Speaking of your man, I won't keep you. I just wanted to say sorry for yesterday and to make sure we were square."

  
"Oh. Yeah, sure, we're good." He frowned. "Sherlock is here already?"

  
"Yeah, he's been here almost all day." She pointed to the other side of the room where, if he lifted up and leaned to the left, he could see Sherlock sitting at a table with Victor. John scowled. They were playing chess, a past time that had ended in disaster after their first attempt. He had upgraded to a cigar, which was clenched between his teeth, as he moved a Knight into position. John watched them, spell bound in part due to Sherlock's confident magnetism, and startled as Victor swiped a hand across the board in anger, knocking the pieces to the floor. Sherlock, cigar still between his lips, grinned at Victors antics. _Oh, it's cute when_ he _does it, is that it?_

  
"Bit unfair, that," Kate muttered.

  
John turned back towards her. "What?"

  
She waved in Sherlock's direction. "I mean it's his prerogative but I think it's a bit unfair to rule you 'Untouchable' but here he is," she waved again, vaguely alluding to Sherlock's behavior with Victor.

  
"It's...complicated." He didn't know what else to say. They were supposed to be an item. That's what he had told these people. It was for John's safety, that's what he had said. Didn't John's safety matter anymore? Was he too busy flirting and...rubbing elbows, as it were, with Victor to make sure these people knew who he belonged to?

  
"I bet," she hedged as she looked them over as well.

  
So damn cozy, having a laugh over a ruined chessboard, smug in their mutual handsomeness. Who did he think he was? Royalty be damned, John had been Sherlock's only real friend for years. Granted maybe not as long as some of these sycophants, but what they had was real. Wasn't it? Yes, it was.

  
"I would pay good money to see you do whatever it is that you're thinking about doing." She had her chin rested casually on her hand and smiled innocently at him when he looked back at her.

  
And why shouldn't he go stake a claim? He had just as much of a right to Sherlock as anybody. More, if you asked him. "Can you tell the bartender to start a tab?" He hopped down from the bar stool.

  
"It's fine. Humans drink for free."

  
"Oh. Great. Thanks. I'm just gonna be over here." He gestured.

  
"Go get him," she commanded with a grin, dimples showing again.

He had to press his lips together to keep an answering grin in check. He turned and made his way through the crowd, nodded when strangers greeted him by name. Irene waved from her side of the bar and he smiled at her in greeting. She saw his trajectory and gave him a sly half smile. Damn these women, they were bad influences. He didn't even have a game plan, per se, but then again, he usually never did. He was a 'fly by the seat of your pants' kinda guy. He would work with what the situation gave him. It was Sherlock after all. They already had chemistry. He'd never really flirted with a gent before, not on purpose anyhow, but it couldn't be that much different. Before he could lose his nerve he kept on, moving with a purpose toward the table, indifferent to Victor altogether. He swiped Sherlock's Queen off the floor before he sat heavily in the chair next to His Royal Highness. In one smooth move, he leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the cheek, as natural as if he had always put his lips to the mans skin. His lips knew differently, they tingled as if they had fallen asleep. He hoped they didn't notice the change in heart rate.

  
"Drop something, Love?" He asked as he handed the chess piece back.

  
"There you are." He smiled beautifully, in character immediately. He really was a fantastic actor. If John hadn't known better he would have thought Sherlock wasn't shocked or affected at all. "Victor, you remember John. I don't believe you've had a chance to chat."

  
" _Onestamente, Gattino, i suoi piedi non toccano terra,_ " Victor spit out, the pretentious prat. He wasn't even Italian.

  
" _Non è la dimensione della barca..._ " Whatever it was that Victor said made Sherlock respond with a smug smile. Victor looked at John darkly and in that moment he believed that this man would drain him, given the chance.

  
"So, what are we discussing?" John asked casually, as if they hadn't just been speaking of him.

  
"Sailing," Sherlock answered with a serene smile.

  
"Oh? I've never been."

  
"I'll take you. You'd like it. Very calming," he offered.

  
Victor smiled, as a snake would a mouse. " _Gattino_ , do you remember the night we snuck off from Lady Montgomery's Summer fête? The butler found us the next morning, asleep in a canoe on the lake."

  
"Of course. We were asked to leave. Can't say I was disappointed in that decree. Her violinist was atrocious. You remember his Tchaikovsky? I could have cheerfully cut off his oxygen with his cravat," he drawled lazily and casually tapped his cigar ash onto the floor.

  
John, not to be outdone, spoke up. "I suppose the closest to sailing I've ever been was that time we were chasing after that human trafficking ring and you went over the bridge into the Thames, after the leader jumped. I had to jump in after you. Do you remember? You wouldn't take your damn coat off and you almost drowned. That passing freighter picked us up."

  
Sherlock smiled softly. "I remember. Mrs. Hudson still tries to tack on the cost of her ruined carpet onto our rent every mouth."

  
"And you haven't paid her for that yet?" He grinned. "She's still waiting for you to patch the bullet holes in the wall as well."

  
"She can keep waiting. They give the flat character."

  
"Agreed," he smiled up at Sherlock.

  
Victor cleared his throat. "John, Sherlock tells me you're a surgeon. That must be fascinating."

  
"I was," he nodded, unfazed by his attempt to demean him with his _former_ profession. "I was an Army medic for several years, done a bit of general practice off and on since. Mostly I just follow this git around though." He casually picked up Sherlock's hand and toyed with his fingers. He didn't look to see what Sherlock thought of this. He couldn't, he was too preoccupied with the game, maintaining the illusion of contented live in blood bag. He didn't pull away though, so that had to count for something.

  
Victor smiled again, the greasy bastard. "How quaint. I see you haven't grown out of this phase," he said to Sherlock.

  
"What? Slumming it?" John asked directly.

  
"No," he responded, the picture of innocence. "The detecting business."

  
"Well, I should say so. He's the best in the world."

  
"Thank you , John."

  
John smiled at him. He looked up when Bobby walked up to greet them. He glanced down at Sherlock's hand clasped with John 's and grinned.

  
"Hello, fellas. Mind if I join you?"

  
"Not at all, Robert," Sherlock deigned. John scowled when Victor rolled his eyes. "Victor, this is my client, Robert Ferguson. Robert, this is an old friend of mine, Victor Trevor."

  
"Cheers, Mate." Bob shook hands with the slimeball.

  
"Speaking of detecting, you'll be happy to know I should have our man apprehended by the end of the night."

  
Bob smiled softly. "Yeah? That's great. I only wish I had known before Mere was taken."

  
"Yes, well, you should have known. It is your son after all."

  
He sucked on his cigar as if he hadn't just dropped an A bomb at the table. Bob's face fell so fast it was like watching a mask ripped off.

  
"What?" He rumbled.

  
"The killer. It's your son. At first I doubted his capability to take down one vampire, let alone five, but I think he's using our hubris against us. Not sure on the catalyst but I'm sure the mental instability of your ex-wife contributed to his psychotic break, that, coupled with his jealousy of your love of Meredith most likely sent him over the edge. Tell me, how did he come to know of Meredith's nature? She wasn't stupid enough to live openly around the boy, was she?"

  
Bob stood slowly. He shook his head, not in acknowledgment of Sherlock's question but in denial. John stood as well when Bob turned and walked away. He looked down at Sherlock in disgust.

  
"You can be a right bastard, you know that?" He marched after his friend. "Bobby, wait." He caught up with him and snatched him by the arm.

 

"Let me go. I have to find my son."

  
"Wait, just wait. I'm sure we can figure this out."

  
"He's wrong. Jackie would never hurt Meredith. She loved him. Treated him as her own."

  
"I'm sure you're right. We'll get to the bottom of it."

  
Bob looked him over. "You think he's right. You knew and didn't say anything. My God, John, he can be wrong, you know. He's not infallible."

  
John opened his mouth but anything he said would be a lie. Sherlock could be wrong, it was true, but it wasn't likely.

  
"Do you know what these people will do if they hear about his accusations?" He asked. "Forget this. I'm going to go find my son. Stay here, fawn over the bastard while he accuses my son of murder." He sneered and with that he stomped off. John stared at his back in guilt as he walked off. When the door closed behind him John turned and looked around in a daze. He ran his fingers through his hair before he remembered that he had combed gel into it. _Great, now it's probably sticking up funny._ As if he needed to look like a loony on top of everything else. He snapped out of his shallow funk and lasered his focus on the real issue. He marched back to the table where Sherlock sat, still chatting congenially with Victor.

  
"I know you find tact dull but it wouldn't kill you to deploy some sort of human empathy in a situation like this."

  
Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Would you like me to have lied to him? Have him find out about his son after we drop him into the river and his body washes ashore?" Victor chuckled.

  
John saw red. "You'll do no such thing."

  
"He's past redeeming, John. It's not something the prison system or a pill can cure. What person in their right mind would believe him, that there are vampires truly roaming the street of New Orleans? No one. Not when half of those people didn't exist on paper."

  
"Meredith did," he spit out. "She had a life here, a job, human friends. The police are already looking into her case. The best thing to do would be to let the police capture Jack."

  
"They'll never prove he did it. Her body has long turned to ash."

  
John took a steadying breath. "How do you even know it was him? Hmm? You've told me nothing about your proof."

  
Sherlock snorted and looked at Victor, as if to say 'Do you see what I have to put up with?' "With good reason. You're not exactly impartial to the outcome, are you?"

  
"Bobby is my friend-"

  
"Was."

  
John rocked back. "What?"

  
"Was. Was your friend. You'd not spoken in years, most likely after he impregnated his ex, if I'm not mistaken, and he'll definitely not be wanting to go out for a pint now that your flatmate is going to dispatch his son."

  
Without hesitation, John reached down and hauled Sherlock out of his seat. He dragged the shocked vampire by his shirt through the crowd. The first door he came to he kicked open and tossed Sherlock through. It was empty, thankfully, because John wasted no time in crowding into Sherlock's space. "If you touch one hair on that boys head, you will answer to me. Do you understand?"

  
He looked John over, expression neutral but just under the surface John could sense something brewing. "Why?"

  
"Why?" He spit back, incredulous. "I'm not just going to take your word for it that he's guilty. He's a kid. You said so yourself, you doubted he was capable."

  
"That was before all of the evidence to the contrary."

  
"What evidence?" He demanded.

  
"His mental instability. I got that from his medical files. He's delusional, prone to bursts of anger. Was unhealthily dependent upon his father, until about six months ago when he went completely against his nature and abruptly moved out of the house. Dolores was kind enough to get his new address for me, after which I broke into his apartment to find on his laptop research pertaining to my kind and army training manuals for taking down targets in close quarters." He lifted his eyebrow, a dare to refute his findings.

  
John wasn't going down without a fight. "Be that as it may, you're a detective, not judge, jury and executioner. He deserves to be tried in a court of law."

  
"This _is_ our court of law," he growled. "Hunters are dispatched without mercy."

  
He pursed his lips, disgusted with this turn of events. "Even children?"

  
"He's nineteen. Hardly a child. And don't pretend that's what has you so upset, my acting outside the law. That's never bothered either one of us before. This is about me. What I am."

  
John shook his head but couldn't get a word out to defend himself.

  
"You can't stand the thought of a human being killed to save a few measly vampires. Why bother saving an aberration of nature? You're all the same. Find out you're not at the top of the food chain and it's the end of the world."

  
"That's not true-"

  
"It is. You've decided it's not on, drinking blood to live. Disgusting habit, worse than smoking. No, you'd rather a psychopath run free, killing my kin indiscriminately, than I take matters into my own hands and sully your perfect image of my humanity. Sorry to disappoint, John, but as I've always said, I don't possess that admirable trait."

  
"No?" He snapped curtly, close to agreeing with him, if only because he was being a prat.

  
"No. Never have, never will. It had never seemed to bother you until now. Funny how a change in species can change your outlook." John blinked at him, unable to muster a real response that didn't involve punching him in the mouth. "I won't force you to continue this charade of amorous behavior, since it's so clearly abhorrent to you."

  
John chuckled morosely at that. "Is that so?" _Abhorrent? Then why did I dress up for you, kiss you, hold hands with you, put up with Victor's disdain for you?_ He didn't say any of it aloud of course, he couldn't. It was too ingrained, he'd kept it inside for too long, to say the words. He gave Sherlock a nod. "All right. We've officially broken up." He had another sick laugh at that.

  
Sherlock had his neutral face well and truly in place now. "You should know if they discover you're fresh game, I won't be able to protect you for long."

  
"That's perfectly acceptable actually. I'd like a go at Kate, since I'm off the hook." He had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock flinch, just slightly, at that. Guess he wasn't as neutral has he'd like. John walked to the door but couldn't help one last parting shot. "You see, it's not somebody's species that abhors me, it's their actions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why there was a chicken wandering around while John was experiencing his nervous breakdown, it's because I based the diner they're in on a real place in New Orleans, and yes, there is a chicken hanging out in the backyard. I felt the same way John did when I discovered it. Except in my case I was just really hung over.
> 
> I'm gonna let you guys in on Sherlock and Victor's Italian convo, because it's hilarious. 
> 
> Vic: Honestly, Kitten, his feet don't even touch the floor.  
> Sherly: It's not the size of the boat...  
> :D
> 
> I'd say this is about halfway-ish. So maybe eight chapters...nine with the epilogue probably. We'll see. As always, thanks for reading. Kudos and comments extremely welcome, especially for fix-its and if anybody wants to correct the Italian. I love you all!!!


	5. The Pain for the Ecstasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives what he's always wanted. But the price is high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in the open.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Additional Chapter Notes: Smut alert y'all. You know you've been waiting. :) I'll also alert you to a heavy amount of blood during the end scene, so be prepared for that. You're reading Vamplock, so I assume it won't really come as a surprise, but I'm throwing it out there anyway: Vampires drink blood. Boom! Shocker I know.

He slammed the door and marched out into the common room, tunnel vision caused him to focus on Kate, still at the bar, now chatting up some woman in a green sheath dress. He walked up and held his hand out.

  
"Can I steal you away?"

  
She started at the abrupt interruption. Her nervous glance behind him said she was looking for Sherlock. "I...are you sure?" She stammered.

  
"Positive. From the horses mouth, I'm off the hook." He grinned.

  
Kate looked at him in pity, it made John ill to see. "Honey. This isn't right. What happened?"

  
"Will you dance with me?" He asked darkly. God help him, he was going to do something really stupid if she didn't say yes.

  
She looked at the woman, who had been watching them unabashedly, and told her, "Watch my stuff?"

  
"Sure." She grinned. "Can I have your Chanel when Sherlock ashes you?"

  
"Fuck off, Lia." Kate took John's hand and he helped her hop down from the stool. He led them out onto the dance floor and swung her around into his arms. She smiled and wrapped hers around his shoulders as they swayed to the old ballad that played. "John..." She hesitated.

  
"Don't," he muttered with a shake of his head. "Just let me have this one moment, please."

  
"Okay," she placated softly. "I understand, I really do, but...it's just..."

  
"You're safe, I promise, if that's what's worrying you."

  
"I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about you."

  
He wrapped his arms tighter around her. "You don't even know me," he whispered.

  
She sighed out an exasperated breath in his ear. "I know you're doing a shit job at acting like you don't care. Whatever is going on with you and Sherlock, you need to work it out."

  
"There's nothing to work out."

  
"How can you say that? He loves you."

  
He laughed. "Is that so? Could have fooled me." He blinked up at the flickering lights above them.

  
"You're one stubborn man, John Watson."

  
"You're not the first woman to tell me that."

  
"It must be true then, right? Listen," she commanded. "We all watched you man handle Sherlock just now. Do you understand that he _let_ you do that to him? In a crowd of his lessers, he let you dominate him. To a vampire, that's tantamount to marriage."

  
John let her words bounce off his thick skull and shook his head in denial. "He's used to my bursts of anger, I just took him by surprise before he could react."

  
Kate scoffed. "Sherlock? Not react quickly? He's a vampire with one of the quickest minds of all time. They say he's wasted as a detective and the only reason why he's not our _Rex_ is because he's too lazy to rule."

  
He laughed at that. "That's certainly true."

  
"And yet you think you took him by surprise?"

  
He hesitated. "It's happened before."

  
"I doubt it." She leaned back to look John in the eye. "Look, I'm going to lay some hard truth on you right now, because we're both adults and I like you." When he nodded solumnly she continued. "Lamiae like Sherlock, from important Families, old, ruling class Families, can and will do whatever they want. That includes draining whomever they want, whenever they want. They rarely take _Sanguis Cibal_ , and if they do, it's usually a Mate situation, like with Sherlock's parents. I can't imagine a situation where Sherlock has just casually tossed you aside for an old flame like Victor. It's not possible. Whatever is going on with you two, it's a blip. Can't you just go talk to him?"

  
They had since stopped the charade of dancing. They stood on the dance floor and let everyone move around them. John wasn't the type of bloke to ask for help, generally. The situation with Ella, his therepist, was Army regulated, and he hated every minute of it. But right now, here in this twisted situation, he found himself lost, adrift with no land in sight. He opened his mouth and let the truth spill out.

"I'm not his Mate." She opened her mouth to argue but he cut her off. "I'm not his _Sanguis Cibal_ either." She snapped her mouth shut with a confused scowl. He explained, "It was a lie we used. For the case. He said it would protect me from all of you, in case anyone got it into their heads to nibble."

  
"I don't understand." Her forehead crinkled adorably in her confusion.

  
"It was a ruse. But we decided to call it off. It's too...complicated to keep up."

  
She shook her head. "No, John. That's insane. It makes no sense."

  
"Yeah, well, it is what it is," he mumbled. He watched a couple spin past and attempt to look like they weren't checking him and Kate out.

  
"John! He can't do this! It's nearly impossible! You two live together, don't you?"

  
"Yes," he answered, hesitantly.

  
"That's insane," she repeated. "He can't be happy with the arrangement. Are you refusing him?"

  
"No! It's not like that," he pushed his fingers through his hair again, mussing it up further, "we're just mates. Friends, not _Mates_ mates. I didn't even know he was a vampire until yesterday. I didn't know vampires existed until today."

  
Her eyes bugged. "What did you think was going on yesterday?"

  
"Role playing," he said lamely.

  
"Role playing," she parroted dryly and then chuckled. "I could have drained you dry and you wouldn't have known what hit you, you perfect idiot." Her eyes lit up. "Well that's it right there."

  
"What?"

  
"He claimed you, quite violently I might add, when he saw me with you. He played his hand there, before you even knew what he was. Don't you see? He couldn't help but get possessive even when it meant showing his true nature."

  
"You don't know him that well so I don't blame you for seeing it that way but Sherlock is just naturally possessive of what he considers his. I'm flattered by it for sure but it's not a sign from above or anything. He'd have reacted the same way if you'd touched his microscope."

  
"Really?" She asked dead panned. "You wanna bet?"

  
"Not really. Why? You know something I don't?"

  
"Yeah, I do. Despite your assessment of my safety concerning Sherlock, he's been staring daggers at me for the last four minutes. Sorry, Johnny, but I'm going to have to take a rain check on the rest of that dance." She clasped his shoulder and squeezed before leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek. Just before walking away, she whispered in his ear, "You're both fools if you let this opportunity pass."

He stared after her as she walked away. Adrift again in a sea of people, he stood rooted to the spot. That was the third time someone had called him on his bullshit excuses. What was he to make of it but that it was possible that Sherlock wanted him too? But why? Why him? Why hadn't he ever said anything, tried anything? Married to his work, that's what he had said that night at Angelo's when John had done his best to subtly ask Sherlock about his status. Nothing had really changed in the proceeding years. They had been close from the beginning, closer than was normal, sure, but no further. What was he to infer from that but that Sherlock didn't want anything else?

He stared stupidly at the stage as he tried to puzzle it out, when a shiver rolled down his spine, causing his shoulders to stiffen. It hit him then, amongst all the others on the dance floor, Sherlock's unique scent. John wasn't even aware that he knew it so well. The sweet lemon scent of his hair, the expensive cologne, even the newly collected smell of his cigar, it hit him solidly, pleasant but jarring in its affect on his body. Not only was he instantly turned on, before he had even confirmed for himself that it was Sherlock, but also the affect it had on his heart. Sherlock smelled like home.

He turned slowly, on the balls of his feet, and discovered why his scent was so permeating. John had to take a step back just to get enough space to look up. The vampire looked down at him as if he were studying a newly discovered specimen of mold. It didn't feel sexy, it felt invasive.

  
"What?" He snapped.

  
"Are you still with me?" Sherlock rumbled, barely heard over the music and the crowd.

  
John opened his mouth but couldn't form a cohesive sentence.

  
"The case."

  
"Oh." He looked away, slightly disappointed. "Of course." He looked back at Sherlock, determined to get something back that they had lost in this situation, their status as London's best detectives. "Is he here?"

  
"No," Sherlock answered. "That's the problem. I left him clues, taunts, directions. Everything he would need to find this place and yet he still hasn't made an appearance. Not within three hundred yards. I'm curious."

  
"Maybe he's not an idiot, did you think of that?" Sherlock scowled. "You invited him to walk into enemy territory, alone. Why in God's name would he do that? Strategically it makes no sense."

  
"I was hoping he was so far gone he wouldn't be thinking clearly."

  
"I'm glad to see you can still be wrong about some things."

  
"I'm never wrong."

  
John smiled. "Yes you are."

 

Sherlock's answering smile was small but it was there. _There you are. There's the man I fell in love with._

  
Everything came to a screeching halt. "Oh. No," John whispered. He looked down at the floor, eyes scanning but seeing nothing. _I tipped,_ he thought. _When did that happen?_

  
"What is it? What's wrong with you?"

  
He looked back up and prayed his face wasn't showing what he was feeling. "I just..um, I was just thinking about Bobby again. Poor guy."

  
"Yes, well," he tugged on his shirt, "I'll see to it that we get a confession before I...before it comes to...you know."

  
"Thank you. I think." That was probably the closest Sherlock would get to apologizing.

  
"I was thinking of walking past his flat. If you'd like to join me?"

  
John licked his lips, and he hesitated, even though he knew he would say yes in the end. He couldn't fathom walking beside this man, the world's most observant, and be able to hide his newly acknowledged feelings. But of course, "Yeah, sure."

  
Sherlock waved him forward. They made their way out and on the way he paused when he abruptly made eye contact with Irene. She was giving him a 'What the fuck is wrong with you two?' look. He waved her off, shooting her a 'Can it!' look right back. They passed Winston at his post and John was thankful when Sherlock opened the door and exposed them to fresh air. He took a cleansing breath and let it out in a steady stream. He wasn't sure if the air in New Orleans had cooled or if it was just overly hot in the club but he felt refreshed none the less.

  
"Is it far? These shoes weren't made for long distance travel," John supplied.

  
Sherlock looked down at them, and back up. "You didn't have to buy a new wardrobe on my account."

  
"I didn't, no," he denied too quickly. "I just, it was because all I had left was casual dress."

  
"That would have been fine."

  
"Yeah well."

  
"You look good."

  
John looked at at him sideways, trying to gauge his sincerity. He didn't trust anything at this point. "Thanks," he muttered, it came out sounding like a question.

  
"To answer your question, no, it's not far. But it is in a decidedly poorer section of town. If you had an illusions about New Orleans being over Hurricane Katrina, they're about to be shattered."

  
John thought on that. "It must have been awful for them. Being displaced."

  
"The humans or the vampires?"

  
"Both I suppose."

  
"Vampires will always thrive during chaos," he admitted. "But, yes, it was difficult for all involved."

  
He looked over at Sherlock. "For you as well, I'm sure."

  
Sherlock glanced over. "Me?"

  
"Yes. Don't pretend like you don't love this place. It must have hurt terribly when you found out."

  
"I asked after Irene but she's always been a survivor. Other than that, I was indifferent."

  
John smiled at that. "You're a terrible liar."

  
"Really? 'What do you need six blood packs for?' ‘Those are for my experiments, John. I'm testing molecular breakdown.'"

  
"Oh, what, I was supposed to assume you were having blood cocktails after I went to bed?"

  
"Ew. I don't drink them cold. That's disgusting." He shivered.

  
"Oh my God! Are you microwaving them?" He bellowed in accusation.

  
"No! I boil them. The microwave would zap all the nutrients out of them. Obviously," he scoffed.

  
"Obviously," he mimicked sarcastically. "How was I to know they had to be heated up?"

  
"It does come out hot in it's natural form," he replied dryly.

  
John contemplated that. He knew he should be horrified by the very idea, but he was a doctor after all. It wasn't like he couldn't handle the idea of blood in general. And he was depressingly well versed in how hot blood was when escaping the human body. The conversation he'd had with Bob this morning floated briefly across his consciousness but he batted it away.

  
"Where are you even getting them?" He asked, suddenly concerned for the homeless network.

  
"Molly."

  
John snatched Sherlock by the arm. "You're drinking from Molly?" He growled.

  
Sherlock batted him off easily. "No," he denied. "She gives me the blood packs that are rejects. Some I just steal."

  
John didn't know if he should be horrified or relieved. The thought of Sherlock taking from Molly but not him made him nauseous. He guessed it could be a worse situation.

  
"Everyone seems to think you don't," he hesitated, "that you don't drink from...people...anymore."

  
He didn't answer right away. "They would be correct," he affirmed quietly.

  
"Any reason?" _Don't sound so invested, Watson._

  
He gave a Gallic shrug. "Boring."

  
"That's not what Bob says," he said with a snort.

  
"Not my area, remember?"

  
"Then what," he snapped his mouth shut before he asked about Victor and what they had been doing last night.

  
"We're here."

  
"Hmm," John hummed brightly to cover his embarrassment. "Oh."

Sherlock had waved at the block of row houses that were situated in what was probably once a nice neighborhood. The streetlight illuminated the brightly painted structures, colorful but still obviously broken and rundown. Each yard held rusted cars, abandoned bicycles, overgrown grass, homemade furniture made of plastic milk crates, or worse, broken bottles and dirty children's toys.

  
"His is the fifth on the left. Robert seems to be under the impression that Jack is living with a girl friend but I have yet to find evidence of one."

  
They walked forward. "So what's the plan? We just going to knock on the door?"

  
"Might as well."

  
"'Might as well' says the vampire when approaching an accused hunter's house."

  
Sherlock glanced over again as the stepped onto the stoop. "You suddenly care if he stakes me?"

  
"Oh, fuck you," he snapped. "Stop insulting me."

  
"And here I thought I was the one who'd been insulted," he mumbled as he knocked on the door. There was a note from Bobby tucked into the mailbox, asking Jack to call him as soon as he got home.

  
"When did I insult you?" John asked as they waited. "If you consider the fact that I won't let you murder the son of a friend based on conjecture-"

  
"Hardly conjecture, John, and no that's not what I meant."

  
"Then what? Because I accused you of drinking blood at the kitchen table? You do drink blood at the kitchen table!"

  
"Not always. And no, that's not it either."

  
"You're just making shit up at this point. I'll not be made to feel bad for something I didn't even do."

  
"Oh, just leave it. If you don't know what you did than I won't help you puzzle it out." John cracked a surprised laugh at that. "This is hardly the time-"

  
That was cut off by a crash from inside. The back door. They looked at each other and both scrambled to run around to the back. There was a narrow gap between the houses, with a wooden fence separating the front and back, which of course Sherlock leapt over like a gazelle. By the time John rolled over top Sherlock had already tackled Jack around the middle and was wrestling his arms down. John rushed forward, bent on keeping Jack safe from Sherlock, when the sound of a gun shot ripped through the night. Everything slowed down and though it was dark, he felt like he could see everything with crystal clarity. Sherlock reared back, shock and horror on his face, as Jack rolled out from underneath him; Sherlock then collapsed heavily into the grass. Jack looked down at the damage he had caused and back up at John in equal measures shock and horror.

  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry," he sobbed out before he grabbed his backpack and ran for the alleyway behind the house. He disappeared into the night. John stared for longer than was prudent, considering Sherlock was bleeding from a gunshot wound in his neck. It had all happened so quickly, it didn't feel real. Sherlock started choking on his own blood and John ran then as reality caught up with him.

  
"Sherlock," he placed both hands over the hole that pulsed with blood. "Hey, come on, don't do this, mate."

  
Sherlock's eyes rolled but he still tried to speak.

  
"What do I do? Sherlock," he sobbed, "what do I do?"

  
He raised his arm feebly, just barely touched John's neck with his finger.

  
"Oh! Of course. Okay," he fidgeted in realization. "Okay, um..." The mechanics of it escaped him, and while he wasted time trying to figure it out Sherlock shivered as blood continued to gurgle from his throat. He decided the wrist was the easiest way, so he gingerly peeled back Sherlock's lips to reveal his sharp teeth. "Here goes...something," he mumbled. "Please work."

With that he pressed his skin against the tips and hoped for the best. It wasn't long before Sherlock responded. If he'd had any lingering doubts about Sherlock actually being a vampire, they were quickly dispelled. He clamped down hard and John cried out at the sting. Bob was right, it did hurt at first. It wasn't like he expected Sherlock to be turned on while he was dying, but Christ, he really was being stabbed with two, inch long fangs, what did he think it was going to feel like? It was interesting though, he thought, how he could feel his blood being actively pulled out, pooling in Sherlock's mouth. He watched as his flatmate swallowed and tried to stay objective. He waited for signs that it was helping, tried to keep a healers mind set about it, treat it like a medical procedure. _That's my blood saving him. He'd be dead if it weren't for this,_ he thought. Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and he looked up at John. His breath caught when their eyes met.

  
Sherlock growled, actually growled, and then all hell broke loose. He let go of John's wrist, wrapped a hand around his head, pulled it down to his mouth and rolled until he was on top. It was swift, faster than he should have been capable of considering he had been dying a second ago, but nevertheless John found himself on his back, with a vampire breathing heavy against his neck. He couldn't be arsed to care though. He couldn't help when he gasped aloud as Sherlock licked a strip across his skin, couldn't help the moan as he sank his teeth in a second time, because now it didn't feel like being stabbed. It felt good. Really good. _Incredibly good_. He moaned loudly as Sherlock drank, unable to vocalize anything else. Without meaning to he had at some point buried his hands in Sherlock's hair, was clearly pulling him in closer, and he might have been embarrassed by it if it wasn't also clear that Sherlock was just as invested in what was happening as he was. With the vampire writhing on top of him it was hard not to notice that they were both fully erect and grinding said erections against each other. John was on cloud nine and had no plans of ever coming down. Whatever cocktail of chemicals Sherlock was clearly pumping into him only fueled his already deep seated need to be intimate with this man and he could have wept he was so ecstatic. Sherlock carefully wedged his free hand between their bodies and started undoing John's belt, and though he sucked his stomach in to help, inside he was a ball of nervous energy. They were really going to do this. He untangled a hand from the curls, reluctantly, and wrestled to do the same for Sherlock, suddenly desperate to feel him hot in his hands, regardless of his inexperience. Without being able to see it was a slow process but he finally got his trousers open enough to snake a hand inside, right about the time Sherlock wrapped a long fingered hand around him as well. They both groaned in satisfaction. John wasn't going to last long, not at the rate they were going, not with six years worth of foreplay built up in in his mind, not to mention the pulsing, beautifully burning sensation that flowed in his veins. Sherlock pulled away from his neck with a sigh and John let out a pathetic whimper at the loss but it quickly turned rough when Sherlock gracefully slid from his throat to his lips. John didn't even care that Sherlock was licking blood into his mouth, it was over shadowed by the burst of fulfilled longing that exploded in his chest. To finally feel those lush lips against his own, it was everything he'd ever wanted. He gripped Sherlock hard, twisted his wrist just so, just the way he himself liked it and hopped that his mate got off soon because he was about to embarrass himself spectacularly.

  
"Yes," Sherlock breathed into his mouth as he felt John swell.

  
John couldn't speak, he just nodded quickly, panted against Sherlock's lips as he came. He felt as the man squeezed him in pulses, creating a wave like pattern to his orgasm, the likes of which he had never felt before. It went on seemingly forever. When he managed a semi coherent thought, he realized that he had stopped jerking Sherlock, had just gripped him in a vice as he rode it out. He vowed to finish him off just as spectacularly, it was imperative. He raised up and kissed Sherlock again and he went back to working the hot prick in his hand. It was fantastic, he'd never felt the like with any of the women he'd pleasured over the years. Not that he had disliked being with them, but it was as if he didn't know what true pleasure was until that moment, everything so paled in comparison. The silk over hard flesh feel of him, the similarities, the differences, it was all lovely. He used his thumb to swipe at the head, rubbing the leaking tip and his sensitive frenulum. Sherlock moaned, quite vocal in his appreciation. Some instinct in John rose up, gave him an idea and he thought, why not? He licked at Sherlock's fangs, tested the points against the sensitive tip of his tongue, licked up and down, and was rewarded with a shocked cry. Sherlock pushed into John's fist, disjointedly and rough in his pursuit and John smiled against his mouth as they kissed. _Bingo_ , he thought. He pushed against one long tooth with his tongue until blood welled up between them and Sherlock took hold of the muscle and sucked, hard. He moaned out loud, in time with his jagged breathes and it wasn't long before John felt Sherlock pulse hot and wet between his fingers. He grunted when Sherlock fell, dead weight, onto his chest but didn't mind in the least. He did his best to be subtle about wiping his fingers off in the grass, in which John was just now realizing they had been laying in. Eventually Sherlock rolled over and flopped onto his back next to him. They both breathed deeply next to each other and quietly stared up at the stars, faint through the city light, but visible. John went over the last, maybe ten minutes in his mind. It was the single greatest thing he'd ever experienced. Transcendent. Indescribably beautiful. His eyes watered, he was so struck by the feeling welling up in him. He slapped both hands over his face in embarrassment. If he started crying, he'd never forgive himself. That didn't stop his lungs from hyperventilating in reaction to his trying not to openly sob.

  
"Oh! John! It's not your fault, it's my fault. It's the saliva, it has a chemical reaction with human blood, floods you with adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin, causes you to respond favorably to being attacked, it's evolutionary," he babbled. "I haven't fed from a human in so long, I didn't realize..." John couldn't figure out what he was talking about, until he did. "It won't happen again, I swear. I just needed to feed and then it got out of hand. I'm...I'm sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'm not trying to kill you with angst! On all that is holy, there will be a smut filled, fluffy ending! Just stick it out.


	6. Testing the Limits of Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock bury their hurt and focus on the case. A surprising lead develops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in the open.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Additional Chapter Notes: This is as angsty as it gets and I apologize, truly, for how distraught John is over the whole thing. Misunderstandings and miscommunication, that's their issue. I mean, mutual wanks and they still can't be happy. Ugh!

He stopped breathing. His hitching, chest wracking gulps of air were cut off instantly. Realization cut into his skin like an arctic gale. Sherlock thought what they had done was tantamount to rape. That's how he saw it. The thing John thought was the most glorious moment of his life, Sherlock was apologizing for, swearing would never happen again. John thought for a split second about correcting him, but he cut that thought off at the root. Obviously Sherlock didn't feel the same about the encounter as John did, he hadn't been fervently hoping for just that for years, hadn't ever wished things could be different between them, in that way. John had thought...it had felt like maybe he had felt the same, but no. He didn't feel the love that John had tried to pour into each pass of their lips, and now he would never again get to show his affection in a physical capacity because the only reason why Sherlock had condoned it was because he was hungry. His tears did spill over then, silently this time, and for a different reason. He felt gutted, exposed, cheapened. Stupid for hoping, for even a moment in time, that things were different. To make matters worse, he could still feel the euphoria of Sherlock's bite, still feel the heat of it swimming in his bloodstream, but it didn't do anything to dent the horror of the moment. Sherlock didn't speak again. He stood on shaking legs and leaned down to pull John up. He hesitated to take his hand, he feared the touch of Sherlock's skin on his, as if he really was exposed to the elements, but he did take it, let Sherlock pull him up. His head swam, Lord knew how much blood he had just lost, and he steadied himself with both hands to his knees. Sherlock did his best to put his clothes to rights but nothing could be done about the blood, and other, stains. He didn't look John in the eye, for which he was grateful, and he took the opportunity to swipe the salt tracks from his face, tried to make it look like he was wiping the blood off, which was also a necessity, but Sherlock probably knew better.

  
"Forgive me," the bastard mumbled.

  
"You're forgiven," John snapped, and had the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock flinch. He tugged at his sleeve cuffs and John watched as he wrapped his arrogance around him like he would his coat.

  
"Do I have your permission to kill him now?" He asked curtly and without waiting for a reply he started for the alleyway.

  
John reached out and snatched him back. "Wait."

  
"What?" He snapped, jerking his arm back.

  
"Well, for a start, we're both covered in blood, we can't run the streets like this."

  
"It's dark. I don't care if people see, we can't let him get away. He's only got fifteen minutes head start, come on."

  
John didn't follow behind. He had to put his own personal tragedy behind him and focus on stopping this, for Bobby. "Hear me out," he called to Sherlock. He waited until Sherlock stopped before he continued. "He didn't kill those vampires, Sherlock."

  
He received an eyebrow raise for that one. 'He shot me in the neck', that eyebrow said.

  
"Seriously, hear me out. You didn't see his face when he realized what he'd done. He was terrified. He apologized to me for shooting you, said it was an accident," he tried his best to convey sincerity.

  
"So?"

  
"So? So, do you honestly believe he's killing vampires with a .38?"

  
He pursed his lips. "It's possible."

  
"But likely?" John demanded.

  
Sherlock didn't get a chance to answer. Familiar blue and red lights flickered over the top of the fence and Sherlock snatched John by his waist coat and dove for the shrubbery. They rolled together and didn't stop until John's back slammed into the chain link fence that separated Jack's garden with the neighbors. He grunted and Sherlock slapped his large hand over John's mouth. Sherlock was laying half on top of John but he didn't seem to notice, his attention was on the fence. John's attention was on Sherlock's bony hip where it pressed into his thigh, and on the fact that Sherlock's hand was still coated in John's semen near the webbing of his fingers.

  
"They're walking through the front garden," he whispered to John. "I don't believe they'll stick around long."

  
"Took them long enough to get here."

  
"Hmm?" He questioned.

  
John peeled his fingers off. "I said, it took them long enough to get here," he whispered.

  
"Oh, yes. Advantage of being in a bad neighborhood. Another advantage is that they'll do a cursory sweep of the house and when they don't find anything, they'll just leave."

  
"That's terrible."

  
"Yes," he agreed, but he clearly didn't care. "That reminds me, I need to pick up the bullet."

  
"Where did it go?"

  
"Should be right where we-" He paused. "Where we were laying. Fell out while I was healing."

  
"Oh," he muttered lamely.

  
Seeming to just notice that they were pressed together again, Sherlock eased off and inched away. John tried not to let the loss affect him, at least visibly. He watched Sherlock watching the house and he felt the loss everywhere, not just on his skin. _Stop being such a damn fairy,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father spoke internally. He schooled his features as best he could and pulled his consintration back on the case. He flipped over on his stomach so he could watch the progress as well. They ducked down when one of the police officers walked out of the back door and shone a light around the back garden. It was only dumb luck that the blood from Sherlock's neck wound was hidden in the shadow of the house, where his light hadn't penetrated.

  
"See anything, Mike?" One of them yelled.

  
"Nah, it's like you said. Probably a drive by."

  
They moved back inside but he and Sherlock still waited until the car lights moved on. They stood slowly, aware that the neighbors could be watching.

  
"Let's make our way into the house," Sherlock said, still whispering. "We might as well clean up a bit. Jack's trail has gone cold by now, I'm sure."

  
He was being disingenuous. If Sherlock wanted to follow Jack, he still could have, they both knew that. He quirked a smile as they crept through the grass toward the house. The latch on the back door had been broken when Jack had fled. It was sloppy detective work, the police not noticing it. The back door led into a small kitchen.

  
"I'll wash up quickly and then we can search the house for more clues," Sherlock announced. "You should search the fridge for juice. You'll need to replace the fluids I took, get some sugar in you."

  
"Yes," John agreed easily, as if he had done nothing but donate to the Red Cross. Not saved Sherlock's life and then had a mutual wank on the lawn that had superseded every previous sexual encounter ever experienced. Sherlock walked away. John turned on the tap in the sink and dipped his hand into the water to wash his face and neck. He attempted to scrub his shirt and waistcoat of evidence but it was futile. "Yeah, ejaculate all over the eight hundred dollar silk, John, brilliant fucking plan," he mumbled to himself as he scrubbed. The fridge left a little to be desired but he did have a gallon of apple juice. John poured himself a glass, he checked the cleanliness of said glass before pouring, of course, and sat at the little rickety table in the corner. He could hear the shower come on upstairs and he tried not to picture Sherlock under the spray. It didn't work. _The only sexual encounter I'll ever have with him and I didn't even get a chance to get him naked_ , he grumbled to himself. He sipped his juice and scowled at the lino. It wasn't long before the shower shut off and Sherlock descended from upstairs looking none the worse for having been shot in the neck the hour before. John liked it when Sherlock swept his hair back when it was wet. He looked like a gangster from the 1940's.

  
"Better?" John inquired jovially.

  
"Yes. Thank you," he answered easily, to which John nodded. "Nothing to be done for the shirt but," he shrugged, "how are you feeling?"

  
"Good. Yeah, I'm good," he lied. "All healed up. That's a neat trick by the way."

  
"Evolutionary. Can't have a victim bleed out before you've had your fill, now can you?"

  
"I suppose not. What now? What should we be looking for?"

  
"I'll know it when I see it. If he's as innocent as you say I'll be surprised but I trust your judgement enough to give him another chance."

  
John swallowed. "Thank you." He had to take a huge gulp of juice to hide his emotional response to that.

  
"I'll search the bedroom again, you check the sitting room."

  
"Got it. Basement?" He questioned.

  
Sherlock shook his head. "New Orleans is five meters below sea level, they can't dig for basements. Hence all the crypts."

  
"Huh, all right."

  
They separated and searched through Jack's belongings methodically, John having learned long ago Sherlock's precise method of categorizing evidence. It was harder to do in the dark than not but he was used to that as well. He prayed there was something, anything that would lead them to prove Jack's innocence. He couldn't shake the look of true horror on Jack's face as he stumbled out from underneath Sherlock. He was too young, too naive. Not that age predetermined the ability to kill, time in the Military had dispelled that illusion, but it was his disbelief at what he had done. No one that had killed before had that look, shock, disbelief, terror. It just didn't add up.

  
"John," Sherlock whispered from the hallway entrance. John turned to see him staring out the window.

  
"What?"

  
Sherlock raised a hand for silence. He heard it then, someone had drove into the park and was getting out of the car. Sherlock motioned for John to join him nearer the hall. He hoped whoever had parked was going to the neighbors, but no such luck. The sound of footsteps was muffled by the concrete stoop but there was definitely someone coming into the house. Someone that had a key. John looked up at Sherlock in question. Jack wouldn't be stupid enough to come back, would he?

  
"Jackie," a woman called out. The girl friend? She didn't sound like a girl, she sounded like a grown woman. " _Por favor, estar en casa._ Jack," she called out again as she fumbled for the light switch.

  
The room illuminated and John stared, dumb founded. "Dolores?"

  
If he expected her to startle at seeing two men lingering in a darkened sitting room, he was disappointed. She turned towards them, weight on her back foot, and reached behind her back, likely for a weapon. When she recognized them she put her arm down.

  
"What are you doing here?" She demanded. "Where's Jack?"

  
"What are you doing here, Dolores?" John threw back. Sherlock was strangely silent beside him and when he looked over to gauge the detective's take, he leaned back. Sherlock looked furious. Before he could utter another word, Sherlock had Dolores by the throat. John hadn't even seen him move. He ran after the man before he killed her, and it was probably a close thing, her toes were barely scraping the carpet.

  
"Sherlock," he snapped. When that yielded no results he tried pulling on his arm. That worked even less. It was like trying to yank a telephone pole out of the ground. "Dammit, put her down."

  
"She's a traitor, John," he growled. "Did you help kill them or did you just point them out and send Jack out alone like your personal attack dog?"

  
She was turning a startling shade of violet. "Sherlock, you can't interrogate a dead woman."

  
He cocked his head smugly. "Can't I?"

  
"Please. Let's get her story first."

  
He let up a fraction, just enough for her to suck in a gasping breath. "Speak now. You have seconds before my colleague's opinion ceases to matter."

  
John snorted. Dolores looked at John pleadingly and he just motioned for her to proceed.

  
"Castillo," she coughed.

  
"What about them?" Sherlock snapped.

  
"They're taking over. Peru has been under their control for months now."

  
"Yes, so I've heard. What does it have to do with...You're working for them."

  
She closed her eyes. " _Si_. My family was taken. I had no choice."

  
"There is always a choice."

  
She tried to shake her head but her neck was still trapped under Sherlock's hand. "I didn't want to betray Meredith. On my life, I never wanted this."

  
"I assume they've tasked you with taking out the competition here in America?"

  
"Starting here, yes. There are others placed throughout the South that are working on similar plans as we speak."

  
"Where does Jack come in?" John asked.

  
A tear fell. "He was to be the scapegoat. He didn't kill anyone. I swear it."

  
"I don't believe you."

  
"It's true! He walked in on a feeding six months ago. I was just tiding Mere over until Bob recuperated, but he saw and he panicked. I ran after him, stopped him from going to the police. It took some convincing but he finally calmed enough to let me explain what he had seen. I've felt responsible for him ever since. He started to lose touch with reality, he questioned everything, everyone, wouldn't trust anything we said. He decided to move out, so I put him up here, and we told Bob that he was rooming with a girl friend so he wouldn't worry. "

  
"You've covered your tracks well. Any last words?" He asked jovially.

  
"She's still alive."

  
"What?" Sherlock snapped.

  
Faster than John would have thought possible given her lack of oxygen, Dolores swung her legs up and launched herself off of Sherlock's chest. She landed in a crouch, knife already grasped in her fist. "Meredith is still alive. If you kill me, you'll never find her."

  
"Rumi Maki. How quaint." Sherlock pulled at his shirt and scowled at the twin boot shapes imprinted on the front. He looked up at Dolores as if he'd kill her for that alone.

  
John back handed him in the shoulder. "Come off it. The thing was ruined already." He turned back to Dolores. "Take us to her."

  
"No." She looked at Sherlock. "I want Raul taken care of. Your brother can do it. He's been sitting on the fence long enough already."

  
"You seem to be laboring under the impression that I can command Mycroft to do my bidding."

  
"I'm sure he owes you a favor."

  
"As if he did I'd use it for this?" He scoffed.

  
"Not even to save a friend from heartache?" She questioned, knife still in the air like a fourth opinion.

  
"He's not my friend," Sherlock stated with a shrug. Dolores looked at John as he looked at Sherlock.

  
"All right, ultimatum time," she snapped. Sherlock smirked as if she had no real cards left to play. "Tell your brother to take care of Raul or I tell your mother that you let a First Born Lamia starve to death to save your pride."

  
Sherlock hissed at her. John would have been shocked, except it wasn't the first time that had happened. Admittedly the fangs made it a smidge more terrifying.

  
"Where is she?" He demanded.

  
She shook her head and waved the knife. "Assurances first."

  
"Or I could snap your neck where you stand," he growled. John shook his head minutely, though Sherlock wasn't looking at him.

  
"You could try. And, like I said, you'll never find her. I'm the only one who knows where she is. Kill me, kill her. It's that simple."

  
"That's not quite true, though, is it? Jack knows. That's why he's been looking up blood transfusions online. I wondered. I thought maybe he was trying to change himself but that didn't make sense considering that he moved out of the home, away from Meredith. No, he moved out of fear, as you said. But he's convinced himself that she can be cured. That's it, isn't it? Did he come up with that idea or did you feed it to him?"

  
She looked between John and Sherlock, clearly trying to find another avenue of escape.

  
"Dolores," John tried to calm her, "just tell us. Please. I don't want Jack in the middle of this anymore than you do. Bob is my friend and through him I want what's best for his son and Meredith. I don't want anyone else to get hurt. You either." He took a hesitant step toward her, which she mirrored in the opposite direction. "Just, please, help us. Sherlock is angry but he's not going to let a madman pick off his brethren, I'm sure he'll be in touch with his brother shortly," he said pointedly at Sherlock and received a sneer in return.

  
"I need assurances," she reiterated.

  
"And I need assurances that she really is still alive. I'm not going to take the word of a murderess wielding a knife at me."

  
Dolores looked away toward the bay window with its ratty curtains and chipped frame. When she looked back it was with resignation. She flipped the knife up, caught it by the blade and held it out for Sherlock to take. "All right. I'll show you. But I want your word that if Jack is there that you won't hurt him. He's an innocent."

  
Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. He shot me in the neck an hour ago."

  
"Oh, grow up," John snapped. "It was an accident and you know it. And you're none the worse for it."

  
Sherlock glanced over at John slowly. "I wouldn't say that." His voice was quiet but his eyes said everything. John looked away, unable and unwilling to decipher the look. It's meaning was too important to pick apart just yet.

  
"I will take you to her if you promise to end the Castillo reign and let Jack go."

  
" _Acuerdo_. You're not to leave our sight, is that understood? John will drive your car."

  
"Uh, Sherlock," he whispered with a nod for him to come closer. When he did he whispered to him, "I don't think I'll be able to drive here."

  
"What do you mean?" He scowled.

  
"I'm shit at driving from the right side of the road. I can't concentrate properly. You should drive."

  
"Oh for God's sake, John." He shook his head in exasperation. Dolores hid a smirk behind her fist and John glared at her until she stopped. Sherlock held a hand out, motioning her to proceed them outside. He looked at John as if to say 'Keep an eye on her', as if John stood a chance against a mad woman who could wield a knife like a pro, who had spring boarded off a vampire's chest like it was easy. He rolled his eyes and followed them out. Sherlock reached past him to flip the sitting room light off with an put upon sigh. His chest brushed John's accidentally and John leapt out of the way as if he had been burned. Sherlock paused briefly. John didn't look up at him, fear of seeing his disgust simmered in his gut, turned him coward, he just walked out of the house after Dolores. She unlocked the car and opened the door to get into the back.

  
"Wait," Sherlock called out to her as her head ducked down to get in. She hesitated. "You don't think I'm stupid enough to let you sit behind me, do you? Get in the front seat. John, check the glove box and under the seat before she sits. I don't believe for a second that she was only carrying that knife." He walked over to her and patted her down while John searched the car. Sherlock found two other knives and a garrote wire on her. John found six guns(the M9A1 Barreta he shoved down the back of his trousers when she wasn't looking), four knives, a 100,000 volt taser and a box of matches. He shook his head at her in both disappointment and grudging respect.

  
"Of the two attractive women I've met here, one is a vampire, the other is an assassin," he muttered as they got into the car.

  
Dolores swiveled in her seat and smirked at him. "You think I'm attractive?"

  
Sherlock grabbed the top of her head and forcefully turned it. "Eyes up front or I'll have James put them in a martini in lieu of olives."

  
John snickered. Despite the fact that Sherlock might have been serious, John felt pretty good about the turn of events. Jack was innocent, Meredith was reportedly alive, Sherlock would inform Mycroft of the vampire responsible for Dolores's killings and John had, with some interesting side effects, saved Sherlock's life tonight. He could look on the bright side of the event, at least he'd had one explosive fling with the man. Even if it never happened again, he could live with the memory. Maybe one day it wouldn't hurt that Sherlock had rejected him.

  
"Where to?" Sherlock asked.

  
"Get on Ten South first, I'll let you know after that."

  
With out hesitation Sherlock steered them in the right direction. John wondered briefly how he knew where he was going if he'd not been here in seventy years but the answer was probably as simple as Sherlock having memorized a map of the city before they arrived. He watched the play of lights on Sherlock's still drying hair as they drove on and he thought of tugging on those curls, how they had felt between his fingers. The memory was toxic but he had a damn hard time of shaking it. He remembered a technique that Ella had him use to shake memories of the war. She would have him visualize images as if he were viewing them on a screen. He was then supposed to visualize the screen burning down. It was ridiculous but it had helped somewhat with the painful reminders of his past, the War, his childhood. They had never worked with Sherlock though, not with the Fall, not with the painful memories of the good times. So he didn't even try it now, he knew it wouldn't work. He was doomed to remember, it was as simple as that. Eventually they pulled up to an abandoned church, the windows were boarded up but it was clear that trespassers had been through it since it's abandonment.

  
"Appropriate," Sherlock muttered to her as he switched the car off.

  
She looked over. "It was Jackie's idea."

 

  
Sherlock nodded, as he he'd known all along. "Let's end this, shall we?"

  
They exited the car together and made their way toward the building, doing their best to avoid the gravel that lined the drive.

  
Dolores stopped John with a hand to his shoulder. "I should go in first."

  
"Like Hell," Sherlock mock whispered.

  
"If Jack is in there, which I suspect he is, I don't know what he'll do if he sees you first. If he shot you the last time you encountered one another, what do you think he'll do this time? Do you want to put Meredith in danger?"

  
"Why would she be in danger? You said Jack was innocent."

  
"He is. Of killing the other's," she said with an impatient breath. "But he thinks Meredith is an evil creature who must be saved from her self. He's been draining her, she's probably delirious at this point. I've tried my best to sneak in and keep her fed but she no longer trusts me and hasn't fed from me for the last four days."

  
"That's how you did it," Sherlock muttered. "You poisoned them, weakened them, and then struck."

  
Dolores nodded. "Yes. Now, please, let me talk to him first."

  
Sherlock hesitated but eventually motioned for her to proceed them. She inclined her head in thanks and walked on. There was a loose board hanging haphazardly on one window, she lifted it away, dunked under and disappeared.

  
"Can you hear her?" John asked.

  
Sherlock nodded. "Your blood has done wonders for enhancing my abilities. Thank you for that."

  
John opened his mouth to say, 'Any time', but quickly snapped it shut. Risky promise, that. He nodded minutely instead. "Is Jack inside?"

  
"Yes, he's skittish but she's talking him round. I believe she was telling the truth about Meredith as well. There's a third heartbeat, labored but audible."

  
He let out a breath. "Good." He thought on that. "Have you always been able to hear heartbeats?" He asked nervously.

  
Sherlock smirked in the dark. "Not this well, not for a while. Your blood has tripled my abilities in the last hour since it's begun processing. Refraining from live blood had it's draw backs but I had my reasons."

  
"Oh. I was just curious."

  
A snort. "Any other curiosities, Doctor?"

  
He glared over at the prat but honestly, he did have a million questions, things Bob hadn't been able to answer. Perhaps now wasn't the time. Dolores and Jack were arguing loudly enough to be heard by John's less sensitive ears. He shared a look with Sherlock and they both silently agreed to enter. Sherlock went first, John waited until a passing car drove by before following.

  
They moved cautiously through the church, avoiding the debris and detritus left behind by previous trespassers, until the voices got louder.

  
"I don't care about that. I don't. I just want her to stop. He's my dad! I don't want him to become what she is."

  
"It doesn't work like that, Jack," Sherlock spoke from the shadows. Jack spun around, gun raised, and looked equal parts relieved and horrified to see Sherlock step into the light cast through the stained glass window. "She won't change him through feeding. It would only be through his permission that he would turn and I don't fancy him the sort."

  
Jack's hand shook, making John nervous, but he waited to see how things panned out before he'd pull the Baretta from his waistband.

"You...What are you doing here? Did you send them?" He snapped at Dolores.

  
She held her hands up in supplication. "They're not here to hurt you. I swear," she side glanced at Sherlock and licked her lips nervously, "I brought them to Meredith in a show of good faith. You're father called them to help find her and they discovered what you'd done on their own. You're caught up in the middle of something bigger than you or I, Jackie, and I'm sorry for that. I never meant for this to happen."

  
Sherlock snorted. "Is that so? Does he know you set him up to take the fall for Meredith's murder along with the four you actually killed?"

  
Dolores closed her eyes. Jack's eyebrows met in confusion at this. His gun lowered and John took a cautious step forward. "Sherlock," he whispered. "Probably not the best route during a hostage situation."

  
"Not good?"

  
He scrunched his nose in the negative.

  
"What's he talking about?" Jack demanded.

  
Dolores opened her mouth to answer but John quickly cut her off before she told the truth and enraged the madman with the gun. "Jack? I'm a friend of your fathers. We went to school together, he sent me to find Meredith, along with my partner here, Sherlock. He's a detective. I'm sure you're confused but I think we can all agree we all want the same thing. A peaceful resolution. Yeah?"

  
"You're John?"

  
"Yeah, you're dad is worried about you and he misses Meredith terribly. Can't we figure this out?"

  
"She's killing him." He pointed the gun at Sherlock, to John's eternal horror. "You're one of them. You have to be. I shot you."

  
"Yes," Sherlock growled. "You did. And I haven't torn your throat out for the offense. Yet."

  
"Sherlock," John drawled in warning. "A peaceful resolution." Sherlock sneered and John ignored it to look back at Jack. "Sherlock is a prat but he's not going to attack you because he knows you didn't mean to shoot him." Jack nodded in agreement, though the gun never lowered. "Why don't you tell me about what happened with Meredith and we can figure this out together?"

  
Unnoticed by Jack, Dolores had backed slowly into the shadows and away towards the far wall. John assumed she was headed toward Meredith. If she were trying to escape Sherlock would have alerted them to it.

  
"She's a demon. And my Da doesn't care. He knew all along and he still let her live with us. I slept next door to a damn succubus for years. _Years_. I liked her, I did. But after I saw...After I learned what she is, I can't have her near him. He wouldn't save himself so I took matters into my own hands."

  
"As I've already stated, you can't cure her. There is no cure. All you're doing is starving her, killing her."

  
Jack looked wearily at Sherlock. "So be it."

  
A scrape and a shocked breath sucked in behind them. John turned in time to see Bob walk into the pool of light. "Jackie," he whispered. Sherlock hadn't even turned, having probably known Bob had followed them into the church in the first place, but Jack lowered the gun in shock.

  
"Da. I-"

  
"Give me that god damn gun!" Bob bellowed and marched forward. Sherlock side stepped out of his way but Bob stopped on a dime when Jack lifted his weapon again. "Jackie," he growled in warning.

  
"I'm sorry, Da. I am. But I can't let you stop me. It's important. You'll be safe from her."

  
"You really did this? You kidnapped her? You've been starving her? After she accepted you like her own, after she came into our lives and learned to love us, trusted us?"

  
Jack started crying. "I trusted her!" He bellowed. "I trusted her and she lied to us. She tricked you, can't you see that?"

  
"No." He shook his head sadly. "No, Jackie. I know what she is. I've known for years and I still love her." Sherlock's head tilted down slightly, John noted. "Being different from us doesn't make her evil or bad or wrong. She's still Mere, still the woman who would pick you up from practice and take you to Mr. Apple for brownies. She stuck up for you when I got frustrated with you, talked me down from every over reaction I had about you. She loves you!"

  
Jack was crying in earnest now, gun still clutched in his hand as he pressed his fists to his temples in frustration.

  
"Jackie. Where is she?"

  
He sniffled but still scowled, brows furrowed in distrust. Everyone halted when a voice called out weakly, "Bobby."

  
They turned as one and saw Dolores carrying a woman, arm over her shoulder as she shuffled forward. Dolores looked pale, most likely she had talked Meredith into feeding.

 

"Mere! Oh my God!" Bob rushed over but before he could reach her Jack shot into the air once and then pointed the gun at Meredith, manic anger lit him from within.

  
"Nobody move a fucking muscle."

  
"Jack-" Bob started but was cut off.

  
"Shut up! I need time to think. Dolores, put her back. I'm not done yet. I need more time."

  
"There is no cure," Sherlock growled impatiently. "She was born thus and she will remain thus."

  
John knew it was the wrong thing to say. Jack needed to be consoled, not proven wrong. His aim steadied on Meredith and everyone took a halting breath. John noticed Meredith in that moment, she was scared, understandably, but it was her stance that caught his eye. She had one arm still draped over Dolores's shoulder but the other hovered over her stomach, low and shaking.

  
"Oh God," he whispered. "Sherlock."

  
When he glanced over John looked pointedly at Meredith, knowing he would deduce the same thing John had, if he hadn't already. He figured it out immediately and hissed in renewed anger.

  
A lot happened in that next moment. Sherlock rushed Jack, faster than he'd seen yet. Everyone shouted in terror as the gun went off a second time. John stumbled, his thigh stinging with a familiar pain. He looked down, noted the flesh wound, not serious, but he fell anyway. Sherlock, clearly scenting John's blood in the air, wrenched the gun from Jack with a roar and had him up off his feet in seconds.

  
"Jack!" Bobby shouted and ran for them. Meredith yelled as well, fighting Dolores to get to them. John watched helplessly as Bobby decked Sherlock in the side of the head, sending both vampire and teen to the ground. A wrestling match of epic proportions ensued and John crawled forward awkwardly to stop them. Meredith continued to cry out, begging Bobby to stop before he was killed, as Sherlock had gained the upper hand and didn't look rear ready to stop at merely subduing the larger man. John made his way toward them but when another shot rent the air everything stopped again. John looked up and stared aghast at the sight of Jack, gun back in his trembling hand. He looked, terrified, at Sherlock, sure he'd see the man bleeding yet again from a gunshot wound but Sherlock looked equally shocked at the sight of Jack with the gun. A shuttering breath gasped out Bobby's name and they all turned and looked at Meredith.

  
John had to give it to psychopath's, they were determined little bastards. Meredith bled in pulses all over her already stained blue blouse. Dolores screamed as they dropped to the floor together. Sherlock jumped and ran full force at Jack. The flat of his palm caught the boy square in the chest and he flew into the wall behind. He hit hard and didn't get back up. John couldn't seem to conjure the proper concern just then. Bobby sat up in shock but John was the first to get to the injured woman, his only thought was to save her the way he had saved Sherlock.

  
Dolores snatched his arm when he made to offer his wrist. He stared aghast at her intrusion but she shook her head and said, "Let Bobby. It's why she chose him."

  
He cocked his head in confusion but Bobby fell to his knees beside them, already rolling his sleeve up.

  
"I'm bigger. I have more blood to give," he explained.

  
"Oh," he breathed and looked down at himself in realization. _That must be why..._

  
Suddenly Sherlock was there, tearing away the expensive fabric of his trousers. "You're an idiot," he growled at John before he did the most absurd thing of all. He leaned in and started licking at the wound on his thigh. His head snapped back as the saliva entered his bloodstream.

  
"Oh shit! Sherlock! Not the time or the place," he panted, hands hovering just above the man's head in indecision.

  
"He's right." Bob muttered. "You are an idiot."

  
"Wha..." John breathed in a distracted manner.

  
"He's healing your wound, you knob." He grimaced when Meredith clamped down harder on his wrist and glared down at Sherlock's head, though he couldn't see, as he was still busy licking away at John's bleeding thigh. "If my son is dead I will stake you myself, Vamp."

  
Both Sherlock and Meredith growled at that. Bob waited until the bullet popped from Meredith's chest, kissed her soundly, and then looked to the other side of the room at his son crumpled on the floor.

  
"Go," she commanded in a raspy voice and a nod. Bob staggered to his feet and made his way over.

Sherlock lifted up and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "If he had been even a fraction of a centimeter closer to his femoral, that boy would be rent limb from limb," he snapped at Meredith, as if the whole thing had been her fault.

Despite how rude the statement was, John couldn't help a rush of warmth at the decree.

  
"Sherlock," he chastised but without venom. His flatmate glared between the both of them in a perfectly petulant scowl. He turned towards Meredith. "Are you all right?"

  
"Yes, thank you." She was still quite pale so John reached out and took her wrist to check her pulse. It was fast but that was to be expected given the circumstances.

  
"And," he looked pointedly at her stomach.

  
She looked surprised that he knew but gave a minute nod.

  
"Bobby didn't know," he stated, really asking why she hadn't told him.

  
"No," she admitted with a look his way. John turned to see.

 

Bobby had laid Jack out flat on his back and upon seeing their scrutiny called out, "He's alive."

  
Meredith let out a breath of relief.

  
"He tried to kill you," Sherlock pointed out, stupidly John thought. He noted distractedly that he still had a hand rested on John's shin.

  
"He's a very sick young man."

  
Sherlock snorted derisively and looked to John. "And you say I'm a bleeding heart."

  
"You can be. Toward mules. Not so much people though," John noted dryly. "Sorry about him," he apologized to her.

  
"Not a problem. And...Thank you," Meredith whispered to him.

  
He looked over. "Bobby called us to come find you. You should be thanking him."

  
She smiled, and despite her current condition, John could understand why Bobby was surprised at her choosing him. She was gorgeous. "Thank you for that as well but I meant for considering me to be a person."

  
That surprised a laugh from John. "Well, obviously." He laughed again at the absurdity.

  
"Not all humans think like you do. We're monsters, that's what they think. Freaks." She looked down at her hands and something told John that there was a story there, the reason why she had left Peru for America and chose to live as a human.

  
"I don't think you're a freak. I think it's quite amazing actually."

  
Sherlock sucked in a breath beside him. John glanced over shyly to see the vampire's wide eyed stare. He smiled, gleeful in his ability to still shock the man.

  
"Not you. You're definitely a freak of nature...but it has nothing to do with the Vampirism."

  
Sherlock went from crestfallen to glaring rebelliously. John snickered.

  
Dolores, who previously had sat quietly against the wall with her knees up, spoke. "We had a deal, Holmes. I kept up my side of the bargain." Her eyes opened slowly to gauge his response.

  
He hissed quietly at her but did fish his mobile from his pocket and stood to get a better signal by the window.

  
"What did you do?" Meredith whispered to her former friend.

  
" _Lo que he tenido que_ ," she answered and closed her eyes again.

  
Meredith closed her eyes as well, mostly in a futile attempt to hide her tears.

  
"The police will be here soon. We need to move," Sherlock announced after he hung up.

  
"What did he say?" Dolores asked.

  
Sherlock glared at her but answered. "I'm to take you to the airport. He's sending men to escort you to London. There, well, I'm sure you can guess the rest. Perhaps if you can prove coercion, they'll go easy on you, give you life. But I doubt it."

  
"And Castillo?"

  
"As good as dead. Your family will be set free to do as they wish."

  
"Thank you," she breathed.

  
"I didn't do it for you," he snarled. John blinked. "I did it for those who would be killed elsewhere and to save her," he pointed at Meredith. _Oh_ , John thought to himself, _that makes more sense._

  
"You have my gratitude regardless." She stood slowly on shaking knees and John rose as well, cautious of his wound. It twinged but thanks to Sherlock it was manageable. He shuffled slowly to help her. She raised an eyebrow at his presumption but still allowed him to support her like she had done for Meredith. Speaking of.

  
"Help her," he commanded to Sherlock with a nod. "Bobby, grab Jack, we've gotta go."

  
"Holmes," Bobby called out. "What about my boy? I'm not letting you touch him again."

  
"Even after he shot your woman in the chest?" He questioned derisively.

  
"He's sick, Mr. Holmes. He's not a killer."

  
Sherlock looked down at Meredith at her decree. He helped her up and looked her over.

  
"Compassion, even after all he put you and yours through? Why?"

  
"Because I still love him. He's been mine to protect for years and I'll not fail him now when he needs me the most. You don't ever give up on your loved ones. Not ever." Her stubbornness must have touched Sherlock on some level because he nodded his agreement.

  
"Robert, your son is safe from me on one condition."

  
"What is it?" Bobby asked darkly.

  
"You get him into a hospital and you don't let him out until he can prove to John that he's well enough for release."

  
"Me?" John questioned in surprise. "Why me?"

  
"Because I'm no judge of sanity, clearly, and Mycroft would have him tossed in a cell under Buckingham Palace for the rest of his days."

  
Bob gave a pained sigh, still on the floor with his son, hand clasped in his larger one.

  
"It's the best deal you're going to get, Mate," John informed him.

  
He nodded. "I know. Okay. Yes."

  
"Agreed. Let's go."

  
They made their way outside slowly, a curious lack of police sirens that had John shaking his head at American standards of criminal importance.

  
"Robert, take your son to the nearest hospital. He's got a concussion at the very least."

  
"No thanks to you," he growled.

  
"I could have done worse than shake his brain. I still might, if you're keen," he threatened.

  
"I dare you," Bobby coldly stated with a step forward toward them, despite still having his son cradled in his arms.

  
"Didn't anyone teach you not to provoke an angry vampire, Scot? I could tear your arms off before you even knew there was a problem."

  
"Sherlock," John drawled again in an attempt to rein him in. He received a glare for his trouble.

  
"I owe him for the blow to the head," he grumbled but it was clear he was backing down. _He let you dominate him. To a vampire, that's tantamount to marriage._  Kate's words drifted back to him and he knew if he had the time to think he could puzzle out tonight's events one by one. 

  
"I'll call you tomorrow, Bobby. Ah, it was, ah, nice meeting you, Meredith," he said lamely.

  
She smiled. "I wish they were under better circumstances...I don't even know your name!" She exclaimed.

  
He smiled. "John. John Watson."

  
"Oh! Of course." Her eyes lit up in recognition. She looked up at Bobby with a smile. "Your John is _the_ John Watson! What an incredible coincidence."

  
"I'm _the_ John Watson?" He grinned despite himself.

  
"Yes! Your Mr. Holmes' John. Everyone knows that. I just didn't know Bobby's old Rugby mate was one in the same. How wonderful!"

  
She quickly walked over to give him a peck on the cheek, which stunned him enough, on top of her announcement that he was 'Mr. Holmes' John'. He noted absently as she moved away that despite all logic, she too didn't seem to have a normal accumulation of body odor. Must be a vampire thing.

  
"Yes, well," he sputtered stupidly.

  
"Come, John," Sherlock commanded, voice low and somewhat threatening.

  
"Oh, piss off, you." He grinned at Meredith's snicker. She gave a small wave and walked back to Bob's car. Bob had set Jack in the back seat and once Meredith was seated next to him they commenced snogging and crying together. Sherlock groaned in disgust and John laughed.

The ride to the airport was quiet, which thankfully left John time to think. What did he want? Really, honesty was the best policy when asking yourself that question and he'd never been keen on the idea, as evident by his years of self denial. He knew he'd wanted Sherlock since that first night, the night they first spent together, chasing the cabbie and laughing harder than he'd done in ages. But it had subsided, some what, over the years. It had become manageable. Now, there was no compartment big enough to hold in his feelings, his desires. He couldn't delete the events of the last few days even if he wanted to, which he didn't. So what now? Could he go back to Baker Street, back to their shared space, and feign ignorance for the rest of his days? He knew he'd never forget the way Sherlock's lips had felt against his own, he ran a finger against them in remembrance, and shook his head. What did that leave? As he saw it, he had two options: he could end it now, pack his bags when they got home and never look back, self preservation at it's most imperative, or, he could confess and beg Sherlock to take him, humanity and all, flaws and all. Both options caused anxiety and terror to flood his system. He couldn't picture doing either with any success.

  
Sherlock caught his gaze in the rear view mirror. "John. Are you all right?"

  
"Mmhm," he hummed in the affirmative. Sherlock didn't look convinced. Course he could probably still hear his frantic, pounding heartbeat, so he had good reason to be suspicious. He hoped the affect of his blood wore off quickly.

Sherlock took a call, which made John want to chastise him, he was still driving after all, but he knew it was important so he kept his mouth shut.

  
"Right," he was saying to the caller. "Yes. Approximately ten minutes. It's cleared? All right." He hung up and turned to Dolores. "You're in luck. Matthew Devon and Alexandra Spekova are to be your escorts and they might be the two most lenient agents my brother has in America. I had anticipated you being severely beaten on the flight back to London but..." He shrugged.

  
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock."

  
"What?" He asked incredulously. His eyebrows could be seen in the mirror, high and innocent. If eyebrows could look innocent. John shook his head at the man.

  
"I told you," Dolores said, "I don't care what happens to me. I'm just glad to be rid of this nightmare. My family will be safe, Meredith is safe, Jack is safe. It's done."

  
"Hhmph," Sherlock scoffed. They remained silent until they parked. Sherlock drove right around the airport and straight onto the tarmac. A single engine plane awaited to take Dolores back to England, with two agents at parade rest beside the lowered staircase. John actually felt sorry for her, despite what she had done, would have continued to do if they hadn't caught her. She seemed genuinely sorry.

  
"I'm going to have a word with the agents. You stay here," he told her. "And if you touch one hair on his head," he motioned to John in the backseat, "I'll ship you back to my brother in pieces."

  
She sighed at the dramatics, which caused John to chuckle. Sherlock glared at them both and wrenched the car door open. He shook hands with the agents and they began the discussion of her arrest.

  
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about all of this. You seem like a decent woman."

  
She laughed dryly at that. "Does he really put up with this?"

  
"What?" He asked, confused.

  
"Sherlock. Does he not care that you're an incorrigible flirt?"

  
He sat up straight in his seat. "I wasn't flirting. I honestly feel badly for the situation you found yourself in."

  
"All right. But you were in the cafe."

  
"I was," he conceded, "a bit."

  
"See?"

  
"What does Sherlock have to do with it anyway?"

  
"You really don't care, do you? Christ, dodged a bullet with you."

  
"What exactly am I being accused of here?"

  
"You and Sherlock. Apparently you don't have any qualms deviating. Who am I to judge? Perhaps that is your agreement."

  
"No," he sighed and let his forehead fall into the window after he finally caught her meaning. "We're not together."

  
"The hell you say," she scoffed.

  
"I should have it printed on a shirt. Like 'I'm with stupid' and the arrow. But it will just say 'I'm not his boyfriend," he mumbled aloud.

  
She opened her mouth to argue but his defeated attitude must have convinced her. "Why the hell not? It's the most unlikely thing I've ever heard. You two, not together." She had turned fully in her seat to look him in the eye.

He had lost track of how many people had said something similar over the years, concentrated ten fold in the last two days. He was tired of the usual excuses. 'I'm not gay' was about as useful a statement as saying 'Sherlock means well.' It didn't matter in the long run, the evidence was stacked against him and he was just bone tired of flat out lying.

  
"I actually thought we were, for a minute there tonight. But he doesn't want that. Not like I do. Loyalty doesn't equal love for Sherlock. Simple as that." He smiled, sadly he was sure, and was struck by Dolores's look of pity. He looked away, his eyes focused past her, through the windscreen, to the tarmac beyond.

  
Sherlock had turned, ever so slowly, to lock eyes with John. Surprise showed on his face, no, not even surprise, it was devastated shock. John felt an equal amount of horrified, gut wrenching panic.

  
"Dolores," he whispered, still unable to look away from his flatmate. "Can he hear us?"

  
She turned in her seat to see what the fuss was about. "Oh," she breathed. "Um, yes, probably."

  
"Fuck."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The worst of the angst is over. Things will run much smoother from now on, I promise. Thanks for sticking it out!


	7. The End of the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions are made by both parties and the result has been a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a background on this universe:
> 
> \- Richenbach happened but John never met Mary, never got married.  
> \- Sherlock returned and after some time to adjust, John forgave him and they moved back in together.  
> \- This is about a year and a half after Sherlock's return.  
> \- Irene Adler never happened in 2010's London. She's a crossover character I spliced from the original ACD character, because I like her better. You can still picture her as Lara Pulver, however, because she's beautiful and my Irene is still a bit of a Dom.  
> \- John has successfully(?) hidden his feelings from Sherlock for years but since we're inside his head, we get to experience all the lovely pining.  
> \- Vampires exist in this world but not in open.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Additional Chapter Notes: This chapter is almost entirely smut. You're welcome.

One of the agents must have tried for his attention several times because he had to lay a hand to Sherlock's shoulder and physically turned him back around, albeit apologetically. Sherlock continued their conversation but turned back to look at John again, neutral facade back in place but still he wouldn't look away. John felt like a mouse caught in the sights of a snake. They finished the discussion over Dolores's fate and Sherlock pointed at her to exit the car. She turned and looked at John again.

  
"I'm sorry about-"

  
"Shut up," he hissed rudely, afraid she'd make the situation worse somehow. If that were possible.

  
"Ah. Yes, well. Thank you for your help, John."

  
He gave a quick nod but didn't acknowledge her further. Later, he'd be horrified at his brisk treatment of a woman that he had just sent, in all likelihood, to her demise, but in that moment he couldn't be arsed to care. It was her fault he had confessed what he had, in front of Sherlock no less. His choice had been taken from him, an avenue stripped from him, stripped of his control at least. He gripped the seat underneath until his fingers went numb. Sherlock quickly, clearly uncaring about manners, herded everyone onto the plane and marched back to the car. John was sure his racing pulse could be heard over the sound of the plane's engine as it kicked on but there was nothing for it. He sat down in the seat with a whump of air and John pretended that he didn't exist, had never existed frankly. As far as he was concerned the car had started itself.

  
"I'm not a taxi service, John. Come sit up front."

  
"Nope." He stubbornly shook his head.

  
"Fine, act like a child. Might as well add babysitter to the list of career choices fostered on me tonight," he grumbled.

They didn't speak another word from the airport to the hotel. He wondered briefly what they were supposed to do with Dolores's car but he assumed Sherlock would take care of it. Or rather, he'd have it taken care of. They let valet take the car and made their way up to the room, likely looking like a two man funeral march. Upon entering the room, Sherlock marched from one end to the other and John waited for the inevitable. He didn't disappoint.

  
"I won't be shoved off forever. We need to talk."

  
John chuckled. "Poor choice of words. You sound just like one of my 'insipid girl friends.'"

 

  
Sherlock growled low in his throat. "You _will_ talk."

  
"I won't actually. You're going to leave it, despite your instinct to uncover things that aren't your business, and we're going to pretend this whole trip never happened."

  
"No. I won't allow you to do this."

  
"Do what?" He snapped.

  
"Deny everything, like you always do."

  
"I'm not denying anything, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stand here and let you dissect me like one of your experiments. This is my life, it's not some curiosity that you can just take out and play with on a whim."

  
"You don't deny it then?" He demanded, an almost manic light shining from within.

  
"Christ, did you hear nothing I just said?"

  
He stomped his foot petulantly, curls swung madly in his agitation. "Tell me the truth for once in your bloody life, John Watson!"

  
"Yes! Jesus, are you satisfied? Yes, it's true, John Watson is sexually attracted to Sherlock Holmes and has been for years. He wants to hold hands in public and-"

  
He didn't get to finish the rest of his rant because said object of affection leapt at him with the speed of a jungle cat(apt description there) and threw them down onto the bed. Sherlock landed roughly on top of his chest, making it hard to breathe but his lack of oxygen was the furthest thing from his mind because Sherlock was actually, physically demanding that John open his lips wider so he could work his tongue beyond. John obliged. He couldn't remember a time when he had gotten so hard, so fast. Possibly the last time this had happened, which was technically just a few hours ago. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered beyond this. He wasn't sure what he had done to cause this absolutely wonderful turn of events but he wasn't going to let it go to waste. As that thought flitted across his consciousness, Sherlock actually drew back. John chased after him but Sherlock laughed and held him down.

  
"I forget that your oxygen intake needs are greater than mine. You need to breathe."

  
He shook his head in the negative, though he was panting in earnest. "No I don't. Don't need to breathe."

  
He laughed again, looking happier than he had in days. That earned him more kissing apparently, albeit slower this time. Slower meant more time to collect data, evidence as it were. And the evidence said Sherlock did want this, like everyone had said he did. A sob escaped at the thought. Sherlock pulled back again, confused. He pulled John up until they were sitting and John couldn't stand to see his puzzled expression, so he gripped his shoulders and tucked his forehead against the crook of his neck.

  
He started babbling, needed the release of the truth like he had needed air just the moment before, "I've wanted you for so long. Years. Since the first night. I haven't been able to stop thinking about this since you told Kate I was yours. I tried to bury it but I couldn't. I didn't want you to know but I can't...I can't..."

  
"You thought you were hiding your attraction from me? Me? The most observant man in the world?"

  
John laughed and attempted to get his breathing regulated again so he could think straight. "Yes, well..you never said anything...did anything about it, so I assumed you either didn't know or didn't care."

  
"John, you were clearly uncomfortable with it, embarrassed by it. Do you think I would force myself on you just because you occasionally had erections in my presence? What kind of monster do you take me for?"

  
"I wanted you to force yourself on me, you twat!"

  
"Well how was I to know?"

  
"Worlds most observant man, remember?"

  
"'I'm not gay, we're not a couple, of course we'll be needing two rooms?'"

  
"Oh, you'll listen when I say that, but when I ask you to clean out the fridge..." He stopped to collect his thoughts again. "You said that first night, not your area, married to your work. You never showed any interest in anyone. I assumed it would make you uncomfortable, that's why I was uncomfortable."

  
"Says the man who had an argumentative conversation with his penis over it's proclivities."

  
John turned several shades of red over that statement. "You heard that?"

  
"Of course I heard. Even if I hadn't, you're a terrible liar."

  
"Am not," he argued.

  
"Your phone was on the nightstand, John."

  
"Oh," he muttered, and remembered Sherlock handing it to him as they had walked out the door. Stupid. "Be that as it may, the issue is I didn't believe you would reciprocate, simple as that."

  
"I don't think it is as simple as that. Somebody comfortable with his bisexuality doesn't vilipend when his preferences are put into question."

  
John flinched at the 'B' word but it was something he was going to have to get used to discussing openly if this was going to work. He looked up at the man seated next to him. "It's not something I can easily explain."

  
Sherlock looked into his eyes and pleaded, "Try."

  
He took a breath. "Okay," he nodded, "I'll try." He collected his thoughts as best he could. Sherlock deserved that much. "You've been lucky thus far, and haven't have the misfortune of meeting my sister, but believe me when I say she makes my going to war look like a trip to a child's sandbox. If you were to compare our moral commitment to social justice, that is. But her crusade was LBGT and mine was-"

  
"Less to do with social justice than your need to laugh in the face of danger?"

  
"Hush. Yes. My point is... Jesus, I don't know. It was difficult living with her. At first I felt badly for her. She picked the wrong family to be gay in. It's not that I think she should have had to hide herself, I'd never say that, but she made it so much harder on herself from the start. She never took shit from anybody, you know?"

  
"Some would say that's a trait to be admired," Sherlock said.

  
"Normally I'd agree, except you never met my father either." He shuttered. "It just got so hard, living in that house, with the two of them especially, going at it, day and night, always at each others throats. I learned early on to keep my head down and to stay quiet. Keep my mouth shut." He looked down at his hands, twisted in his lap. "So he wouldn't notice." He didn't say it aloud but Sherlock smiled sadly in understanding. "I've never...I never acted on it, but it's not like I wasn't aware, you know? I'm not some middle aged guy who just suddenly noticed."

  
"But why? Once you were free of your parents influence...University? The Military?"

  
John shook his head. "I had offers," he admitted. "The only thing I've been able to conclude is that it never felt right. I think I was just waiting for the right time. The right person." He looked up shyly at Sherlock.

  
He was grinning, the vain git. "Me?"

  
John rolled his eyes. "Apparently."

  
His smile shrunk slightly, a confused line appeared between his brows. "But...you seemed so disinclined. It was like pulling teeth trying to bite you on that sofa."

  
John's own eyebrows responded to that by climbing up his forehead. "Were you really going to bite me then?"

  
"No." He frowned. "Probably not. I'm not sure. I hadn't intended to but you smell so damn good."

  
"Okay, let's set that aside for another discussion."

  
"All right. You still haven't explained. Why were you so tense? You claim to have wanted it."

  
"Sherlock," he shook his head, "I've been under the impression for the last six years that you don't do...that. From my perspective, you would have run screaming from the room had I responded the way I wanted to."

  
"Even after, when I was touching you? What could you have possibly used to explain that away?"

  
"I'll be completely honest here, I wasn't in my right mind at that point. All I could think was that if you touched me I was going to have a nervous breakdown, I was so tightly strung with holding back. It was terrifying.  I panicked and I'm sorry." He didn't bring up Victor because he didn't want to shatter this fragile moment they had created. "It wasn't until later, after I had calmed down, that I realized what I had done, what I had said no to, and I did try to make up for it. The suit, the flirting, a vain attempt to show you I was...amiable...to further advances."

  
"Oh," he breathed. "I thought you were mocking me."

  
"Mocking you? What gave you that idea?"

  
"You said, on the sofa, it meant something different to me than to you. I thought that was your way of telling me I had gone too far. And then the next night you were being so out of character, I thought it was just your contradictory nature saying, 'Look, I'm not bothered.'"

  
"You twat. I don't get dressed up and flirt with someone just to prove how okay I am with their sexuality." He shook his head at the man's logic. "And anyway, I said it meant something different to _me_ than to _you_. Meaning I wanted it to be real and I thought you were just acting. I couldn't stand it."

  
He studied John's face. "I'll accept that," he nodded sagely and John chuckled, "but not after we...at Jack's. You can't tell me you burst into tears because the reality of it was so great."

  
"I can actually. That's exactly why I started crying."

  
"Bullocks," he spat.

  
He took Sherlock in hand, clasping the man's larger hands in his smaller ones. He looked him straight on so he'd see his sincerity. "I had never, in all my forty plus years on Earth, felt the way I did in that moment, Sherlock. I was so happy, so _over whelmed_ with happiness, I couldn't hold it in. I had been waiting for that moment since the first day we met. You bloody winked at me and I would have followed you off the edge of a cliff."

  
He looked John up and down skeptically. "You were _crying_ ," he reiterated.

  
"Have you never heard of happy tears?"

  
"That's the most asinine thing I've ever heard," he snapped.

  
"Well, it's true," he shouted and threw his hands up in frustration. Sherlock knocked them out of the air, grabbed hold of his face again to snog him senseless. After that it was a war to see who could get the other naked first. John won simply because Sherlock had to wrestle to get John's waist coat off. John simply ripped the vampire's shirt open, romance heroine style. He refused to feel embarrassment over it, he was simply being expedient. Last time had been over too soon, not nearly enough skin on skin contact, and he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Sherlock kicked his trousers off, somehow managing to maintain mouth contact the entire time, until he grew impatient with John's lack of nudity and with a snarl, pulled away to rip at John's trousers.

  
"The belt, you imbecile. The bloody belt is still on," he laughed.

  
Sherlock looked up with a scowl but made quick work of the rest of John's clothes. Once completed, Sherlock raised back up and leveled his long body full against his and John thought, _Nope, still not going to last long._

  
"Christ, you're lovely. I'll never last another five minutes," he panted.

  
Sherlock continued to rut against him. "You will. If I don't bite you this time, you will."

  
He lifted up and bit Sherlock's ear, whispering, "What if I want you to bite me?"

  
He received a growl and a hard thrust. "You'll be the death of me," he rumbled.

  
"I bloody well hope not. Not now anyway."

  
Sherlock breathed heavy in his ear, making a mockery of his promise to make it last, the sound of vibrations deep in Sherlock's throat going straight to his cock.

  
"Nope. I'll never last. Finish me off, I'll go longer the second round."

  
"You sure?"

  
"Pretty fucking sure, yeah," he growled.

  
"All right," he shrugged, "I'll see what I can do."

  
John started to chuckle but it was cut off with a gasp when Sherlock wrapped a hand around the both of them(Christ, he was born for this) and stroked them both together. His gasp for air was cut off by Sherlock's mouth, and John could do nothing but hold on tight and ride it out. When he got closer he reached down and grasped two handfuls of Sherlock's perfect fucking arse and pulled him closer, harder. The bloody genius vampire on top of him waited until he was cresting on the brink of a fantastic fucking orgasm before he bit down on John's lip, sending him over edge with a cry. He didn't expect Sherlock to follow him over(surely a hundred and sixty year old had better stamina) but follow he did.

  
"Sher...fuck...yes, that's it," he crooned as he felt Sherlock shake and watched him flush. His lips pressed together and he whimpered, falling heavy on John's chest again with a classic Holmesian dramatic flourish. John grinned like a madman at the ceiling. He racked his nails up Sherlock's back, with delightful results, and gripped the man to him.

  
"Sorry," Sherlock's voice, muffled by the pillow, mumbled.

  
John chuckled. "You should be. Terribly rude, coming on my stomach like that. Where are your manners?"

  
Sherlock raised up, his brows lowered, and scanned John for seriousness.

  
"Sarcasm, you idiot. Christ." He pulled him back down and grinned when he settled in like a cat. His hands caressed up and down his mates skin, marveling at the near complete lack of sweat. Must be why he didn't smell. "You are fucking amazing, do you know that?"

  
He didn't respond with words. No, he showed his appreciation with his lips and tongue in another way. They snogged like teenagers for what seemed like hours, days, or at least until they were both hard again, which John assumed should have taken at least a half hour. At one point, after he had given Sherlock's fangs a thorough cleaning with his tongue, he started laughing uncontrollably.

  
"What?" Sherlock asked, bemused.

  
"You brought them from home," he snickered.

  
"Well, technically I did. I just brought them in my mouth."

  
"Smart ass."

  
They went back to snogging for a long time, even after they had long since been ready for more, just because it was a long time coming, their need to kiss each other.  
Eventually though Sherlock raised up and gave him the 'hold on' finger. He rolled over and rummaged, half on the bed, half off, which John enjoyed the view of very much, through his suitcase on the floor. He sat up and handed John a small plastic bottle, giving him the same look he did when he had solved a case and was anticipating John's commendation. He looked the man over in confusion.

  
"Were you anticipating this?" He asked.

  
Sherlock's face fell. "No." He looked sincere.

  
"Then why did you bring lube?"

  
"I...well..." He stuttered, quite out of character and John felt ice water enter his blood stream.

  
"Oh. You anticipated Victor."

  
"No!" He grabbed John's shoulders. "No, I swear. I hadn't given that prat two seconds of thought since 1937."

  
"That why you snogged him silly when he threw himself at you?" John spat, childishly it was true, but he couldn't help it.

  
"John," he huffed but kept running his hands up and down his arms. "That was wrong and I'm sorry that happened, truly I am. This," he nodded to the lube still in John's hand, "is easy to explain, just somewhat embarrassing."

  
"Embarrassing?"

  
"Just because I haven't been with anyone in decades, doesn't mean my libido shut off completely."

  
First John processed Sherlock admitting that it had been _decades_ , flattering that, then what he was implying worked it's way into his idiot brain.

  
Sherlock started nodding when the light bulb blinked above John's head.

  
"But we're sharing a room," he said stupidly.

  
"You sleep. I do not." He blinked at the comforter and then back up at John.

  
"You were just gonna...do...that...with me right here?"

  
"Wouldn't be the first time," he said with a shrug.

  
John's flagging erection came back with a vengeance. He moaned and flung himself at the man, intent on devouring him whole. Sherlock caught him and rolled them closer to the middle of the bed so they didn't fall off, which was smart because John surely hadn't been paying attention.

  
"Condom?" He questioned against Sherlock's mouth.

  
"Don't need them."

  
"Like hell," he announced.

  
"Seriously. I can't get sick. It's not an issue, trust me."

  
He lifted up to look down at the vampire. "You've been sick before. I've taken time off work to look after your arse."

  
He actually looked guilty. "I was faking."

  
"You're a bloody liar! I'm a doctor, I know sick people."

  
"It's a skill we all learn as children, to fit in. People tend to notice if you never get the sniffles. Looks suspicious."

  
"You're telling me I took whole days off of work to look after you and you were faking the whole time?"

  
He frowned sadly. "I like spending time with you."

  
John moaned and fell to rest his forehead against Sherlock's. "I don't believe you."

  
"I'm not going to sneeze while we're in bed just to satisfy your disbelief."

  
He chuckled. "Oh, I believe you lied about being sick. Devious little shit. I don't believe how transparent you've always been and I never noticed."

  
"You are comparatively much less intelligent than I am."

  
"Remind me why I wanted to have sex with you?"

  
"Gladly," he answered. Before John could shout 'God save the Queen' he found himself on his back and Sherlock's lips wrapped around the head of his cock.

  
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" He cried out.

  
"You've a filthy mouth in bed, John, did you know that?"

  
John, instead of replying, shoved Sherlock's head back down. He didn't complain, he simply took him down to the root. His back bowed in the bed, and he desperately wanted to watch, to see those heart shaped lips around him(he'd pictured it in his mind plenty), but he couldn't raise his head off the pillow. Eventually he grabbed hold of silky curls and pulled until Sherlock raised up.

  
"Stop or I swear I'm going to finish again," he panted. Sherlock growled his displeasure but conceded to his wish.

  
"The lube, what did you do with it?"

 

He looked around, frantic, with hands roaming until they found it. He thrust it into Sherlock's hand with a shuttering breath.

  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and shoved it back. "No," he drawled, "this is for you to use on me."

  
"What?"

  
"You. To. Use. On. Me," he stated slowly, as if John was an idiot, and he must be, because he still didn't understand. He must have wanted it himself pretty badly because when he understood the meaning he frowned.

  
"But...I thought..."

  
"Not for our first time, for Christ's sake. I might hurt you and then you'll never want to again."

  
"You won't. I trust you."

  
"Oh God's sake, John, lube yourself up and fuck me!"

  
John reared back, certain he'd never encountered something both so infuriating and sexy at the same time. _Welcome to sex with Sherlock Holmes_ , his brain supplied.

  
"With an invitation like that, who could say no?" He flipped open the bottle top with his thumb.

  
"You apparently," Sherlock complained as he rolled over.

  
John slicked up his fingers, and felt a surreal, dreamlike quality take over. _Was this really happening? Christ._

  
"I've never, ah, that is for the purpose of...hmm..." His brain was short circuiting, looking at Sherlock's round behind, the long line of his back, so pale and lithe. Christ, he was delicious.

  
"You've given prostate exams but never fingered anyone?"

  
John thought back to the summer before he joined the Army. His girl friend at the time had asked him to try anal, since he might not get the chance again, she said, and he had agreed. Everything had proceeded relatively smoothly, until he had started envisioning that bloke from the coffee shop instead and the guilt had ruined the whole experience. He'd never tried it again. He realized Sherlock was still talking.

  
"What?" He looked up, distracted.

  
He received an impatient huff. "I said don't bother. I don't feel pain quite as sharply as humans do. Just, you know, go ahead."

  
"I...Are you sure?" He whispered.

  
"Quite."

  
He used the lubrication already coating his fingers to smooth around his cock. The sensation caused him to groan.

  
"I can't believe this is actually happening," he muttered to himself.

  
"Are you aware you said that out loud just now?" He teased.

  
John paused but laughed at the reminder of their first case. It broke the tension that had been lurking around John's shoulders, nervous energy evaporated into the ether and he leaned into position with a renewed purpose.

  
"I'm going to go slow, regardless, all right?"

  
"That's acceptable," he rumbled.

  
"Oh, is it? Is it 'acceptable'?" He chuckled.

  
He positioned himself against Sherlock's entrance, like a skills test that, considering Sherlock was wiggling like a damn cat in anticipation, but eventually he pushed in. They both groaned loudly as the attempt to go slowly went all to hell. Sherlock raised up and John pushed down and, well, things quickly got out of hand. He was so tight but so welcoming, like coming home from a winter stroll to find a roaring fire in the hearth. And that was as poetic as he could manage, because Sherlock was going just wild underneath him. He gripped the slim hips underneath him, in a vain attempt to control the situation, but more aptly he just hung on. Sherlock pushed against him more than John pushed into him. He hoped that eventually they got better at holding out, as they got used to the idea of fucking each other, but as it was they were in a race to the finish line with each act carried out. Like randy fucking teenagers, they were. Sherlock clawed at the headboard, his fingers scraping for purchase, the sight was ridiculously sexy and John groaned at it. The only thing that would be sexier would be to see his face, he thought, and the idea was a good one. He pulled out, to Sherlock's dismay, but quickly reached for his legs and flipped him over and spread him wide to dive inside again. Sherlock gasped, his eyes rolled up as his lids slammed shut, and John nearly growled in pleasure. He took his mouth and rode hard and fast into the bloody gorgeous man beneath him. Familiar heat worked it's way from the base of his spine and he doubled his efforts, pulling almost all the way out and then back in.

  
"Come for me, Sherlock. Please, I'm so close," he begged.

  
"John, John, John," he panted and squeezed him tight. He felt Sherlock clamp down in spasms, felt the wet heat of his ejaculation between them and he let go in satisfaction.

  
"Oh, Christ, Sherlock," he cried out and stilled inside him, head buried into his neck as he shook. They stayed that way, John on top, Sherlock's legs wrapped around his thighs, even after John pulled out, they stayed locked together. Neither was keen on getting up to clean or any other after coitus ritual. Sherlock didn't even ask for a cigarette. After a while, some time after he started carding his long fingers through John's hair, which caused him to sigh in contentment and shuffle closer, he spoke.

  
"You gave you're confessions, John, it's only fair that I give you mine."

  
John lifted up a bit to look at him. "And what would you like to confess?" He asked. He wrapped a finger around a dark curl because he wanted to and he could.

  
"From the beginning, I've known. That you were attracted to me."

  
"Mmm, I wasn't exactly being subtle that night, was I?"

  
"No, not at all. I'd suggest taking a note not to lick your lips at people you don't want to know you're flirting with but I hope that won't be an issue any longer."

  
"Quite right. Only have wet lips for you, Love." He leaned forward to kiss the momentarily shocked look off his face. "Continue."

  
He blinked. "Yes, as I was saying, I've known for quite some time. When I set you down that first night, it was under the assumption that our living together would be optimal if our relationship remained professional. I'll admit to being fascinated by your contradicting personality but I didn't predict a physical attraction between us being beneficial."

  
"Told you you can be wrong."

  
"A near imbecile," he agreed to John's everlasting delight. "I should confess, though I was glad you had taken the hint and not attempted to pursue a romantic relationship, I was baffled by your continued attraction and denial. I would, on occasion, push you-"

  
"Tease you mean."

  
"Yes, I suppose," he conceded. "An experiment, if you will. It was cruel and I apologize. It took until after the Fall to realize why I felt the need to push you. I wanted you to snap. I wanted the romantic relationship. I missed you so badly." He pulled him in tightly. John hung on, buried his nose in his hair and breathed him in. "I'm sorry, John. If I'd known you truly felt the same I never would have left. I didn't think you needed me. You were supposed to move on, start a normal human life with some boring woman and be happy."

  
"You'd wish that on me, you bastard?" He teased.

 

He let out an amused snort that brushed down his neck. "Not really. I knew you'd never be truly happy living like that but it's what I thought you wanted. All those boring teachers and nurses, in and out, day after day. I knew eventually you'd find the most boring of all and settle down, if I was no longer in your way."

  
"You're a git." He brushed his lips back and forth across Sherlock's neck.

  
"Yes, apparently." He squeezed John around the middle briefly and then continued. "I never meant to come back, initially. Being a vampire has it's draw backs. Having to leave your home after a certain number of years is one of those, but I was prepared to start anew after Moriarty's web was destroyed. It took less than six months for me to realize that I was never going to be able to stay away. I would explain it away with excuses like 'I need John because he expedites my thinking process' or 'I need John because he would know what kind of weapon was best in this situation' or 'I need John because I'm bored and there's nobody here to yell at me.' Eventually I figured it out. 'I need John.'"

  
"My God, why didn't we figure this out sooner?"

  
"I had every intention of telling you when I returned but...you'd changed. I didn't feel that you would have welcomed it."

  
John thought back to those first few weeks after Sherlock's return. It was painful and he had every right to his anger over what Sherlock had done, but now, knowing he could have had this sooner, he wanted to slap himself for being so dense.

  
John sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  
"I'm sorry I gave you cause to resent me."

  
He didn't think he'd ever felt so light, as he did in that moment. A lot of weight had been taken off with their, finally, open discussion. "Any other confessions you'd like to get off your chest?" He asked quietly.

  
The response was a long time coming. "Only that these past few days, waiting for you to figure it out, the truth about me, has been the most nerve wracking thing I've ever been through in my entire life. If I was cruel to you in any way, that was the root of it. I've been anticipating the moment when you would finally say 'To hell with you' and never return and I was sure this would do it. But you didn't leave. You know the worst about me and you didn't leave." He squeezed John around the middle again until he couldn't breathe but it was okay, he let him. Once he eased up, after gasping for air, he planted several kisses in Sherlock's hair. His way of saying, 'Yes, I'm still here'.

  
"So, that's it? Nothing else you want to admit to...?"

  
"No. I don't think so."

  
"Nothing hurtful or inappropriate happen in the last few day I should know about?"

  
"No."

  
John sighed. Apparently putting your penis on, in or near a swarthy, pretentious twat of an ex didn't count as hurtful in Sherlock's book.

  
"Ah. You're referencing Victor, aren't you?"

  
"Who?" John feigned ignorance.

  
Sherlock chuckled. "Nice try. If it will soothe your curiosity, yes, I did let Victor pleasure me orally, and it was just a hair more satisfying than having a go at a back alley Unfortunate from Whitechapel. I only let it happen because I was angry...and hurt...when you rejected me."

  
John processed this. Was it better to know the truth now? Yes, he supposed it was. He had assumed as much anyway and he'd have just worried about it forever until he knew.

  
"What about your 'arrangement'?" He asked.

  
Sherlock fidgeted. "I made that up in an attempt to hurt your feelings," he admitted quietly.

  
John laughed. "Well, it worked, you prat."

  
"I'm sorry, John. I am. The whole situation was just an utter cock-up. How can two of the smartest men in the world be so stupid?"

  
"I'm going to forgive you, but only because you included me in the 'smartest men in the world' part."

  
"I know, why do you think I said it?"

  
John laughed really hard at that. Sherlock joined in.

  
They settled down again eventually, all grew quiet and still and John realized how exhausted he was. He didn't think Sherlock would sleep but as the dark settled around him, he found that he didn't mind. As long as they could stay like this.

 

 

He awoke later that morning, rolled onto his stomach, with sunlight streaming through the window directly into his eyes. He scrunched his face and stretched, happy to note that Sherlock was still stretched out beside him. In fact, he was lazily running his finger tips over the scar on his shoulder.

  
"I'm sorry I wasn't there when this happened," he said as he continued to stroke the rippled skin, "but only to have saved you the pain of it. I can't say I'm sorry for the scar itself."

  
He turned his head toward him. "You like it?" He questioned, voice gravely with sleep.

  
"Very much. It tells a story, this ragged bit of flesh. It tells a part of _your_ story, John, of who you are, where you've been, what you've seen and done. Far more meaningful than a tattoo could ever be, a clearer picture than your flawed human memory can recall. It's beyond fascinating." He circled the scar with a soft touch and John felt tears well up again.

  
"Thank you," he choked out.

  
"Crying again? Should I apologize or..."

  
He grinned at Sherlock's confused scowl. "Happy tears, Love. I promise."

  
"Oh," he blinked. "Good." He planted a chaste kiss on the bullets exit wound and shuffled down under the sheet further so they were at equal eye level. John was so happy he was nearly convinced that Jack hadn't just grazed his leg with his bullet but must have shot John clean through his skull. If he was asked about his ideal Heaven, this would be it. In bed with Sherlock, lazy and contented, with the love of his life complimenting him on his ugliest parts and meaning it.

  
He reached out to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I can't imagine a moment outside this one. Can we stay here like this?"

  
"Absolutely not. I left the _flexor digitorum superficialis_ in the crisper."

  
John closed his eyes but somehow was still smiling. "You've ruined me. I somehow find that charming instead of infuriating."

  
"Really? Post coital afterglow turns off the incessant whinging?"

  
"Use this knowledge at your own risk. The tables can easily be turned."

  
"It would be worth it. I should have forced the issue sooner. Could have saved those eyes you threw out last month."

  
"Can't say I disagree there. Not about the eyes but about your forcing the issue."

  
"Yes, well, it worked out in the end, didn't it?"

  
He hummed contentedly. "Hardly the end."

  
"Yes." He leaned in for a kiss, light, barely a brush of lips but still powerful in it's result. He honestly couldn't imagine not ever having this. It would only get better with time, as well. With that thought came thoughts of the inevitable.

  
"I'm going to stay with you, right? For as long as possible? I mean, I'll only get more wrinkly and grumpy but I promise I'll stay as long as I can." He looked up when Sherlock backed up a bit. He looked stricken.

  
"Can we...can we not talk about that?"

  
"Not into older men?" He teased to break the tension that he'd inadvertently caused.

  
"John, you'll never be the older man."

  
"Right. It'll be awhile before I reconcile that. Though it is fairly obvious if you think about it. You're the grumpiest person I know."

  
Sherlock tugged on a pinch of his hair and John laughed. "Not true. Mycroft is the grumpiest person we know," he stated.

  
"True," John agreed. They snuggled down together and grew quiet. John couldn't help but think about their future. It was really upsetting to Sherlock, the idea of John's eventual death, for obvious reasons, but why had he not offered the clear solution to their dilemma?

  
"You haven't entertained the idea of turning me?" John asked suddenly.

  
Sherlock stiffened, didn't respond right away. When he did it was quiet. "I won't take from you the thing that endears me to you. Your humanity is the foundation of my existence. You ground me. If I took that from you, we would both be adrift."

  
"Then let me keep it. Why can't we live like your parents do?"

  
Sherlock shook his head. "No. That isn't acceptable either."

  
"Why not?" He demanded. "You're parents are happy together."

  
"Yes but..." He took a breath to calm himself. "He is beholden to her for his existence. I won't have you dependent upon me to live."

  
"I'm already dependent on you!" He announced. "I love you! I've loved you since the beginning and I'd like to keep on loving you for as long as possible."

  
He realized then that he hadn't said it. He'd shown it a hundred different ways but he hadn't said it. From the look on Sherlock's face, it made all the difference in the world. He pulled John on top of him and kissed him with so much passion John almost forgot there was a discussion in place. Almost.

  
"Don't think this is over, Mr. Holmes," he threatened against Sherlock's lips.

  
"We've got time to discuss it further," he assured.

  
"Not too much time. I'd like to not be perpetually fifty, if you don't mind. Maybe let me work out a bit more first."

  
Sherlock grinned. "You are ridiculous."

  
"You love it," he teased.

  
Sherlock smiled. "I do. I love you, John Watson.

  
He was right. It did make all the difference in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There ended up being so much dialogue during the sexy times, it was the weirdest thing for me. I'm writing the damn thing and all I could think was, 'Shut up and bone already!' Anyway, I promised you a fluffy ending and there you have it. Cuddles and hair kisses and declarations of love. Fuck, maybe I should have thrown in a puppy somewhere just to balance out the other six chapters. Stick around, there's gonna be a little wrap up epilogue coming next and you don't want to miss the ending.


	8. Domesticity of the Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock return home after the case and settle into life together. Not much has changed really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is a neat little wrap up with bonus 221B scene. Note John's utter disregard when confronted by the King of the Vampires.

They made contact with Bobby and Meredith before they left New Orleans, but John couldn't bring himself to meet them face to face, not after everything that had happened with Jack. He felt guilty but Bobby seemed to need the space as well. He called to say that Jack was in the best psychiatric hospital in New Orleans, with the best doctors they had there and that the police had wanted to press charges for Meredith's kidnapping but she refused.

Sherlock, satisfied with this outcome, let Irene know what had happened and was told to keep the knowledge to herself for fear of retaliation against the Castillo Family. They let the others know that it was resolved and to leave it at that. He threatened Victor, quite spectacularly, since he was the only one who knew Sherlock's theory about Jack and might be inclined to meddle. To John's delight, Victor scowled through the whole lecture, eyes on John's hand where it was clearly stuffed down Sherlock's back pocket. They said their goodbyes to the vamp community, Irene and Kate especially, and promised to visit more often.

They spent the rest of the day lazily walking the Quarter hand in hand and to John's satisfaction, had run into the elderly woman who had judged them so harshly the day before outside of the hotel. He snickered at her scowl but didn't explain when Sherlock questioned him. 

Thankfully, the plane ride home was less eventful than the one out, with the exception of John having to change his trousers mid flight, to which most everyone in first class noticed. Who knew a vampire could make you come in your pants with a nip of your finger and a squeeze of your cock through your trousers? Now that he was aware, he'd have to be more on alert.

By the time the plane touched down Sherlock was practically vibrating in his seat in a rush to get home. He barely had time to pay the cabbie before being yanked out of the car. He tugged John inside and to his horror was saying, "Hurry, John. I plan to break in every piece of furniture we own," just as Mrs. Hudson walked out to greet them. He opened his mouth to smooth the situation over but Sherlock was still tugging him up the stairs.

  
"Oh," she squeaked with finger tips to her mouth as she looked at their hands clasped together. He caught her happy tears and the beginning of her grin before being pulled around the corner and up into the flat.

  
They had excellent timing, or he might say Mycroft had excellent timing, because they had just settled down after a marathon session, in which they had each other several different ways on several different pieces of furniture, before he arrived. John had settled in Sherlock's chair with the paper, so he could watch Sherlock at the kitchen table as he fiddled with his experimental wrist tendon. He had thought he might be disappointed to find Sherlock back to his usual self so quickly, but really, it was so normal, so utterly Sherlock, how could he mind? He was glad Sherlock hadn't changed completely, it was comforting. When Mycroft appeared in the doorway Sherlock growled quietly without looking up.

  
"Things progressing nicely I see," he drawled in a smug tone, as if he had arranged the whole thing. John snorted and shook out his paper.

  
"Piss off, Mycroft. Don't you have villagers to terrorize? Small children to nibble on?" Sherlock asked.

  
John pressed his lips together and raised the paper to hide behind.

  
"That's dragons, little brother," he corrected. "John," he then drawled happily.

  
He dropped the paper impatiently. "Oh, can't we skip the threats this time? So we're sleeping with each other now? Not that much has changed. Or, I'm sorry, did you really want to give me the 'Break his heart and I'll have you flayed' speech?"

  
Mycroft's grip on his umbrella tightened but he otherwise didn't react. Sherlock, on the other hand, was shaking with laughter.

  
"Of course not, John, I'm sure anything I said would be promptly ignored. I was just checking that you hadn't run off screaming into the night at the news."

  
"You know I didn't. We flew home together."

  
"Yes, well. Since you clearly understand the situation and don't need to be reminded of your position with the most powerful family in the world, I'll be on my way."

  
John smiled, a bit smug, and went back to his paper. "Can't say I'm surprised at the title of King of the Vampires. I can just picture the ornate Ivory bathtub you use to bathe in the blood of the innocents. Though I could picture that long before I knew you were a vampire."

  
Sherlock called out from the kitchen, "New house rule; No mentioning of Mycroft being naked. He was born in a suit and he'll die in one, as far as I'm concerned."

  
Mycroft, with his perceptually perfect scowl in place, tapped his umbrella regally. "I'm not a vampire."

  
"Oh," Sherlock drawled, "careful, brother, you're dating yourself."

  
John and Sherlock shared a look and a snicker. Mycroft spun on his heel and took a step to leave but at the last minute he changed his mind. He turned back and looked at John with a smug smile. "You know, John, why Sherlock took that case, don't you? He _wanted_ you to find out so he could keep y-"

  
John then had the complete satisfaction of seeing Mycroft take a tumble down the stairs, as Sherlock tackled him from the kitchen with a snarl. He smiled and went back to his paper, mentally calculating how much Mrs. Hudson was going to tack onto their rent for the side table the Holmes brothers had just plowed into.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a chance I might have acquired a Beta for this fic and if so I'll leave this poorly edited version up until said newly scrubbed clean version is available. There's also a chance that I might write a companion piece to this one from Sherlock's POV because _Oh my God can you imagine?!_ One hundred million thank you's to everyone who read and enjoyed this epic adventure that I created in my brain. It's the ultimate compliment. Really, thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, patience is a virtue. I hate waiting for chapter updates but lucky for you(if you're still interested in reading more) this piece is finished, you're just waiting on me to finish editing. I'll get them out as quickly as possible. A thousand humble thanks for those of you who enjoy this first chapter and stick around for more. Kudos and comments are severely welcome. Severely!  
> Come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


End file.
